


The Windhovers: The Beginning

by sarcasticchick



Series: The Windhovers [1]
Category: Torchwood
Genre: Aliens, Drama, Established Relationship, M/M, Psychological Drama, Season/Series 02, Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-28 15:41:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 54,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/309431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcasticchick/pseuds/sarcasticchick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"A hallucination is a fact, not an error; what is erroneous is a judgement based upon it." - Bertrand Russell</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot quit creating universes to "play in" with Torchwood in regards to Ianto (see: SoI). Thus begins the new story, The Windhovers. This story is my effort to "take back the plot" - in other words, plot which has been used and abused is now hopefully being 'retold' within this story. And equally as hopeful, it will be unique.
> 
> Full Story A/N:  
> 1\. Set between "Out of the Rain" and "Fragments," although backstory learned in "Fragments" plays into some of the secondary plot.  
> 2\. Title taken from a poem which I will post upon completion.
> 
> ***Moving things over from LJ as there are better reading/formatting options - not a new fic, but feel free to reread if you'd like!***
> 
> *******

"Ianto, you never told your story."

Ianto wondered, briefly, if his inclusion in a conversation was anything like the timed accuracy of conversation lulls, once every seven seconds, or in his case, a cessation of all earlier joviality in favor of uneasy tension and wary looks from everyone but Gwen. Gwen, who either had forgotten of Lisa or pretended it never happened, blundering in curiously without ever considering the consequences. Of course, he admitted as the team casually strolled from the pub that had been their afternoon retreat after a hellish morning, it was nice to actually have been remembered.

He could lie, that was always an option. Tosh had, as did Owen and Jack, which was almost amusing in and of itself as the team had sat around the pub table, drinking their lagers, ales, and mixed drinks (save for Owen, who instead harped about the toxicity of alcohol and the damage to brain cells in an effort to spoil their drinks. Hadn't worked; in fact, the next round had been bought in Owen's name), telling stories of how they had come to be at Torchwood. Ianto didn't know the truth behind Tosh, Owen, and Jack's tales, but he'd known they were lying, from Tosh's government think-tanks to Owen's dodgy tale about saving the life of an alien to Jack's epic tale of Van Helsing proportions.

Entertaining, but not truth.

Yet what was the point in lying. Had the question been asked of Torchwood Three, Ianto might have chosen to lie. The tale of stalking Jack, attempting every line and trick he'd learned to get in at Torchwood Three before being hired was too sensitive still to even talk about with Jack, much less share openly with Gwen or confirm to Tosh and Owen. But Cardiff wasn't the first branch he'd worked for, after all. "Was hired to set up security and run the books for an underground poker parlor. Turned out my boss was an alien," Ianto started, maintaining candor and level delivery despite the surprised-confused expression on Jack's face, "Torchwood London raided the place and I persuaded the agent in charge to hire me on as I found myself unemployed."

Ianto had to stop as the rest of the group had fallen a few steps behind as they stared, forgetting locomotion in favor of stunned silence.

Not exactly the story they had been expecting, it appeared.

"You're joking." Ianto arched his eyebrow instead of answering Gwen's accusation. Her eyes grew large and he waited for any number of expression to follow. "You worked for an illegal gambling ring?"

Trust Gwen to fixate on the illegality rather than the story, her affronted tone almost enough to make him lose his blank expression. He didn't have to respond, however, as Owen broke in. "Bullocks! Beginner's luck my arse, you lying little cheat. You took me for fifty quid!" Owen's eyes narrowed. "Hold up, you knew your boss was an alien? And you still worked for him?"

"More to point," Jack interjected, arms crossed as he appeared to be puzzling out Ianto, least that's what it felt like, "London still hired you even though you were security and they captured your boss?"

"He preferred _Tang_ over coffee or tea. Of course I knew he was an alien." Ianto didn't mention the tail or the third eye his boss kept covered by a tattered derby hat as he first addressed Owen's question with the proper amount of righteous indignation. Jack still appeared cross, though Ianto could hardly blame him; the man had lost every game of strip poker they'd played. Ianto felt the corners of his lips slip into a smirk as he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his trousers, mimicking Jack's confident arrogance. "I never said he was captured. Got him out of there with the contents of the safe as Torchwood arrived. Knocked out Edwards' team before he found me; he seemed to find that an admirable quality."

Jack threw his head back and laughed, whether because he had known Edwards or due to his actions, Ianto wasn't quite sure. Edwards had been a gruff man of few words who'd held true to his word and found Ianto a place on the research staff. It'd been his first job with actual benefits and legitimate pay instead of quiet money handed to him after he'd finished his duties. Ianto had almost wept at the sight of his first real paycheck. He'd never forgotten Edwards' favor, and had remained loyal to the man even when he'd objected to the theories of the ghost shifts. Though, Ianto remembered with a touch of regret, he'd never openly showed his support; the thoughts of the streets so close that the idea of losing a comfortable paycheck had been enough to keep him silent.

"You never went to university?" Tosh's voice sounded surprised as they resumed their walk towards the Information Center, crossing the Plas towards the scent of sea. The smell was strong today, carried by the wind and tasting slightly of rain. It'd rain yet that day, probably later in the evening, surely to coincide with Rift activity to ensure the finances of their dry cleaning service.

University. Silly childhood dreams lost to fate and duty. Ianto shook his head, turning away from Tosh's scrutiny as they walked. "I left that pursuit for those more inclined to academics." With a gentle nudge of his shoulder into Tosh's, he smiled as she stammered in embarrassment, pleased when the conversation shifted from him to Gwen's inquiries into Tosh's studies. He allowed the group to pull ahead, an action not unnoticed by Jack; he fell back as well, his strides matching Ianto's as they neared the tiny office.

"What other talents are you hiding beneath that suit of yours?"

Ianto glanced at Jack, the slow tug of warmth from both alcohol and simply the other man's presence stretching his lips into a rare smile. An honest one, not the polite, empty smile reserved for confused travellers or hostile Torchwood employees cranky from caffeine withdrawal or too many alien threats. Or sometimes even both. Speaking of confused travellers, Ianto took note of the figure near the Information Center, most likely waiting for the building to reopen again so they could find out what time Cardiff Castle closed. "And lose my aura of mystery?" They walked close enough to touch, close enough in fact that Ianto felt the brush of Jack's arm across his as they walked, hands in pockets, watching in amusement as whatever the trio in front of them had been arguing about devolved into name-calling and playful shoving. Ianto only hoped that Owen took care; he could remember kids breaking bones in schoolyard tussles.

It was almost embarrassing given they had an audience. The woman hadn't moved, standing just far enough away from the Information Center that Ianto wondered if she were more lost than searching for information; wouldn't be the first time. His concerns for public decency were thrown when he quickly found himself spun about, tucked into the shadows with his back against a wall and only slightly hidden from view.

"Never."

He wondered if he was going to have to forward the interoffice documents regarding fraternizing during work hours to Jack again, despite the captain's attempts to shake Ianto of such ridiculous notions of rules and propriety. But policy rules slipped his mind as quickly as they had entered, focus dwindling down to Jack's lips and the warm body pressed against him.

"Oi, at least have the decency to wait till we've gone home before you molest the tea-boy, Jack!"

Ianto felt the laughter rumble deep within Jack's chest. The steady quake echoed by the puffed air caressing his cheek before it was ripped away by nature's hand, jealous of the competition. Jack's unrepentant grin remained, though, and Ianto partnered a roll of his eyes with a quick nip to the lips, still rosy from the cold wind or the kiss. "Don't encourage him," he warned, taking a moment to straighten his overcoat as he stepped away from the wall, feeling like a parent scolding a child. And if that wasn't an image Ianto wished he could strike from his mind, he didn't know what was.

Jack remained just as smug, but at least allowed Ianto to step away, unlike the last time Owen had caught them in flagrante. Then, Jack had responded with a voyeur's wet dream, not stopping even when the distinct sounds of a zipper could be heard across the Hub, not even when Ianto's hands knocked coffee mugs to the floor as Jack fucked him against the coffee machine. The muffled curse in response hadn't belonged to either Jack or Ianto. Jack hadn't even stopped once Ianto was melted boneless against the machine, cheek pressed against the edge while Jack cursed dirty in every tongue, chanting epithets in time with the slick sounds of someone wanking in the distance, which unerringly coincided with each of Jack's thrusts.

Luckily, that had been some time ago, when Retcon still worked on Owen. Jack's smirk when Ianto had handed their medic his coffee the next day had left Ianto blushing and fleeing to the Archives despite Owen believing his missing night was due to too much alcohol. Though, on recollection, Ianto had to admit that it had been rather exciting, knowing they were being watched. He might have to explore that certain predilection of Jack's again.

From the way Jack's eyes darkened (and Ianto swore he smelled the rush of pheromones coinciding with the blown pupils), he appeared to have followed Ianto's train of thought and enjoyed the idea as well.

"Later," Ianto chided, straightening the lapels of Jack's greatcoat before resuming their walk towards the Information Center, turning his face into the wind a moment to have an excuse for the flush he could feel in his cheeks. Gwen, Tosh, and Owen waited just outside the Information Center door; of course they'd left their keys when they'd gone to the pub - no surprise, sometimes Ianto wondered at their ability to show up to work clothed without a reminder pinned to the front door. Perhaps that had been a bit harsh, but not altogether untrue. Why would they worry about such details when either Jack or Ianto had keys? He tried to think of a time he had ever felt such relaxed comfort leaving details in the hands of someone else. He distinctly remembered a time when someone had made him tomato soup and cheese toasties when he'd been ill, bringing it to him on a tray in bed and taking the tray away after he had finished, the dishes cleaned because he hadn't seen them in the sink the next day.

He'd been eight at the time.

It had been his mum who'd done everything, took care of him when he'd been sick with either the flu or food poisoning as he'd never really been sure what had made him so ill.  He still couldn't stomach much citrus after that bout of illness no matter how much time had passed, and even now his stomach flipped queasily just remembering and he could feel phantom cold sweats that had flashed over his skin. And the thought of his mother in such a comforting role could be the only explanation Ianto had now for seeing what he was seeing. His steps slowed to a crawl as they drew closer to the Information Center and the woman lurking nearby.

"Mum?" Ianto broke away from Jack who had continued on towards the door where Tosh, Gwen, and Owen stood waiting like lost children for anyone with a key. In disbelief, Ianto walked away from the team and towards the person he'd least expected to ever show up on Torchwood's doorstep. Figuratively speaking, as she wasn't literally standing on the doorstep, but too close to the Information Center for it to be mere coincidence. "Mum, is that you?"

She looked the same as he remembered her. It'd been...years. Years and some days since Ianto had last seen her. And here...she looked beautiful. Same blue eyes with the wrinkles of sun and wind creasing the skin delicately around the edges, dark curled hair falling in a scattered mess over her shoulders, rich as the blackest earth. His father had sworn he could plant seed in it and harvest the most beautiful flowers. And when he'd been little, it'd been magic to see her walk in with a flower tucked behind her ear, a bloom most vibrant in color that his father had certainly picked for her, but Ianto had always liked to pretend she really had grown the flower in her hair.

And her smile...her smile was radiant. Ianto supposed he had a son's biased opinion, but when his mother smiled, she lit the entire house and made it laugh with her, even if the skies thundered and the rain pounded the windows. Her smile, so warm and inviting it almost brought Ianto to tears. "Mum. I've still got the watch you gave me, for my thirteenth birthday." Ianto smiled as he held up the watch that had been tucked away in his waistcoat pocket.

Her smile, so radiant and warm as she nodded in reply, a hand covering her mouth as a tear trickled down her cheek, rosy as his from the biting wind.

Her smile and nod. Made it so much easier to raise his gun he never left Torchwood without, not even on casual trips to the pub. Not after "Captain" John Hart. Not after Owen had been killed.

"Ianto! Stand down."

Jack's voice broke over the mumbling cry of the rest of his team. Must have been shouts, but it sounded to Ianto's ears like garbled sound in water for all the blood pounding in his ears and the denial threatening to shake the steady hands holding his side arm. He didn't flinch, nor did he lower his weapon. He ignored Jack and shook off the hands that grabbed at his shoulders, cautiously approaching the woman who looked like his mother. Acted like her, _cried_ like her...but she'd never given him the watch. He'd bought it from a pawnbroker as a gift to himself on his eighteenth birthday. He knew it, and the snarl on her face he'd seen often but never directed at him indicated she knew she as well. A weapon was brandished, removed from the delicately beaded purse Ianto remembered purchasing from a peddler with his allowances for Christmas. It looked as deadly as her intent; hell, he knew that weapon, or at least the make. He'd seen one similar in the Archives of Torchwood One. With that kind of weaponry, the entire team was in danger.

"Lower the gun. Please." His voice crackled; he'd felt it break and he knew he was crying but it was his _mother_ holding the weapon, aiming it at him, advancing towards him. If it hadn't been for the watch he might have believed it to be her. She _moved_ just like his mum, with a natural lithe grace that Ianto had to practice to imitate. "Stop," he might have begged, though he might have imagined the plea in his mind as his hearing was monopolized by the warbling sounds of his team. He hoped Jack had his gun. No, he trusted the captain had his gun, but Jack might have forgotten that detail as the others had forgotten their keys and were counting on Ianto to have brought his set. Because the threat wasn't leaving. In fact, the woman was squaring the weapon on him, the woman who looked just like his mother, holding an alien weapon aimed directly at him and rushing at the team in a run that he had never seen his mom perform.

Ianto took a deep breath and fired on the exhale.

He didn't even have a chance to watch her fall. His body slammed into the ground with far more force, his gun torn from his hands. Ianto was too shaken to even put up a token of protest as Jack straddled his waist, pinning his arms to the ground. Words finally started making sense, Gwen's rambling 'oh my gods' and Owen's curses. But Jack's...Jack's escalated above the rest.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Ianto rolled his head to the side, away from Jack's piercing accusations and towards the open-eyed stare of the fallen woman...a woman who looked exactly like his mother as her hair spilled around her, a bullet hole in her pale forehead. "She's not my mum," Ianto swore through hitched breath, though his body was shaking in defiance because, for all he knew logically it wasn't her, the memories of dancing with her to the tunes of a Welsh fiddle were too deep to deny sensory familiarity.

"Ianto." the hands on his arms tightened for a moment before Ianto assumed Jack deemed him safe enough to let go to wave his hand about like he was batting at gnats. But his voice had enough concern ringing in it to bring Ianto up short. "There's nothing there."

"What..." Ianto stopped breathing completely for fear of what his voice might do without permission and pushed Jack off his chest. Or rather, Jack allowed him to scramble away because, even in his panic, Ianto knew the captain was a much more capable fighter than Ianto ever would be. He looked from Jack, elbows on his knees as he crouched in place with a wary eye on Ianto, to behind him. Tosh stared with wide-eyes, Gwen looked like she was dealing with a caged animal in a schoolyard, and Owen was...Owen. Probably still annoyed he couldn't drink and yet they'd gone to the pub anyways. Ianto's hand shook despite his best efforts to keep it steady, turning towards the spot where the woman lay dead. The woman who was not his mother, she was _not_ , no matter how much his eyes screamed their denial. "The woman...she looks like my mum. Right there!"

Ianto turned to look and she was most certainly still there, sprawled dead on the ground. His lungs finally remembered their function, wringing and twisting his insides as he struggled for breath. He was hyperventilating. He knew he was, but for the life of him he couldn't quiet the clamor for air like his lungs demanded. "She had a gun! An alien gun! I had to ... " Jack was in front of him without Ianto even seeing him move as through the black dots that swam in starbursts in front of his eyes. He sat down _hard_ on the ground, head forced between his knees as he tried to breathe with the steady voice commanding him when to inhale and when to exhale. The ludicrous notion of the voice belonging to Owen made him giggle. Owen was dead; how the fuck could he be telling Ianto how and when to breathe since he himself didn't need the oxygen? The giggling might have been a slight tinged on the hysterical -- he never _giggled_ \-- but he'd just shot his mother for fuck's sake. No matter how the soothing hand on his back tried to calm him, Ianto couldn't forget that image.

She wasn't really his mother. He knew that. But as he tilted his head up from between his knees, feeling as shattered and wilted as he must look, it still _looked_ like her. "She's still there." Ianto pointed, an action made difficult as he realized Jack's greatcoat surrounded him.  Despite the heavy wool, he was still freezing cold, his shoulders trembling to find balance even with Jack's steady arms supporting him.

"Look, there's nothing here!" Owen stood up and walked over to where Ianto pointed, waving his hands blindly in the air. Which would have made sense, even to Ianto when he knew things weren't making an entirely great deal of sense, had it not been for the fact that he'd _shot_ the woman and she wouldn't be standing five feet above the ground because she was dead. On the ground.

Ianto had the second most horrifying notion of the day as Owen continued to flail about in an effort to, what, bring comfort to Ianto? If Owen was right, and there was really nothing there...Ianto's stomach rolled in protest, the lager he'd drunk earlier disgustingly uncomfortable at the idea that he was shooting imaginary things. He'd worked himself into quite a state of anxious nausea when Owen tripped, tripped right over the head of the fallen woman.

He choked down a whimper; it wasn't his mother. The woman Owen had just kicked was not his mother.

"Shit! Something's there."

There was a mad scramble for his gun as the warm, solid weight of Jack vanished, leaving Ianto struggling to remain upright, but fuck if he wasn't relieved that he wasn't seeing (and shooting at) imaginary visions of his mother. He would have laughed, if he'd had the fortitude. Instead he just stared dumbly as Jack whipped out his wrist strap and began punching into it furiously while Gwen aimed Ianto's gun at everything _but_ the dead woman she should be aiming at.

Ianto didn't bother pointing in the direction again now that they knew something _real_ was there, he just pulled Jack's greatcoat tighter about himself and tried desperately to convince himself that it wasn't his mum. Tosh took his keys; he knew it was her by her smell - jasmine and rose blended with just a touch of patchouli - and left for...something. Ianto didn't know, didn't care, just concentrated on breathing, not vomiting, and rationalizing, in that order of preference and significance.

Minutes, hours, some time later, Ianto'd lost track but there were shouts and curses blending with the pouring rain. Ianto saw blurred figures moving about, violently separating the weapon from the body despite the fact the woman was _dead_.

 _Not his mum. It wasn't his mum._

Hands suddenly appeared at his arms, his elbows, helping him stand. Ianto tried the best he could to comply, but his knees were quivering so badly he leaned more than stood - leaned and stared as Owen, Tosh, and Gwen lifted the body of his mother. Of course, it had to be brought into the Hub. The woman was impersonating his mum and had an alien weapon; that made it Torchwood business.

Didn't make it any easier when the trio loaded the body onto the lift to take it down to the Hub.

Sharing the lift with the woman he killed.

He tried to crawl into the corner of the lift, flattening and wedging himself as far away from the others as physically possible. This was made easier when a solid form stepped between he and the body - Jack. Jack, all fire and heat as he cut into Ianto's line of sight, drawing Ianto away from the lift wall towards an exceedingly wet chest and shoulder, Ianto's cheek squelching the material. He had Jack's greatcoat, he remembered. It had rained and Jack had gotten wet because Ianto was buried beneath layers and still felt as though he were freezing from the inside out. Returning the coat was not an option as the arms wrapped around him refused to budge, so Ianto gave up trying and relaxed, sinking into him as the lift descended.

 _It wasn't his mum. He knew it wasn't his mum._

The lift dinged and Ianto felt Jack move; he might have said something, Ianto wasn't listening. But instead of stepping out of the lift he and Jack just stood there, dripping water onto the lift which would mold. He'd clean it later. He'd have to anyway, the woman's body probably left bloodstains on the floor which he refused to contemplate for the moment.  
   
He wasn't sure how long they'd been standing there - had he dozed off? - but they were suddenly moving, out of the lift and into the Hub without a spared glance back or sign of any of the others. A detour to Jack's office; he didn't remember climbing the steps at all, but suddenly he was being towelled off, his wet coats and clothing piled in a heap on the floor. Dry pants, a tee, and hoodie later, he was sat on a table in the autopsy bay, a heated blanket thrown around his shoulders without a clue who to thank.

A humiliating experience, for certain, if he hadn't seen the sheet pulled over the body on a table near him. Then he remembered why the humiliation in the first place.   
   
 _Not his mum.  It wasn't her._  

"Ianto." Fingers snapped in front of his eyes, distracting him from the body on the table, understanding Owen's commands as his hand was dragged out from the cocoon of warmth. Blood drawn, why he wasn't quite sure, he didn't think that was typical for hyperventilating, but Owen was the doctor, even if he was a dead one. Though he didn't remember cold being associated with hyperventilating; maybe Owen did have a point. Not that he'd ever admit that.

Once Owen finished all the tests he needed to run and pronounced him a twat - a twat in shock but a twat all the same - Jack stepped into view, rewrapping the blanket around Ianto's shoulders while he kept the cotton puff pressed firmly against the skin of his arm. "How'd you know it was there?"

"Her," Ianto corrected, feeling his numb face twist into a scowl while he duly noted and ignored Owen's sharp glance at Jack. "She was just standing there, waiting for us." His eyes fell on the sheet-covered body, his mind reluctantly catching up with the fact that he had killed someone. Killed someone and she had looked like his mother. How very ancient Greek of him. "She looked just like her."

Owen started to ask something but Jack interrupted. Easier to track the conversation when it was just one voice, one person to listen to, while his eyes remained on the green sheet. "Like your mother? How'd you know it wasn't her?"

"I had to-" Ianto swallowed around the lump in his throat, taking a moment to collect himself as Jack once again placed himself in Ianto's direct line of sight and blocked the other table from view. He would have thanked Jack for the move, but it was almost more difficult to explain to Jack who bore the face of detached inquiring captain, not lover or friend. The words seemed to tumble over his lips at the sight, desperately needing Jack to understand that he hadn't meant to kill his mum. _It hadn't been his mum. It had looked like her but it wasn't her._ "The watch. I...she died, nearly ten years ago. I had to make sure...and then she pulled the weapon and ran at me. I don't know...maybe it saw an old photo and copied my mum's likeness. But it wasn't her. I know it wasn't. She didn't give me the watch."

"Maybe it was psychic." Ianto turned away from Jack to look up at Tosh who was standing against the railing, fiddling with her scanner while she talked. "Maybe it took an image from Ianto's mind after it perceived him as a threat, then used the image like a defensive measure."

Ianto turned to Jack with hope bubbling like champagne; the idea made sense. He'd been armed, he still wasn't sure if Jack was, but if she had thought the image of his mum would leave him defenseless when the team had been threatened, she'd been wrong. The weapon she had was a vicious one; Ianto wouldn't have allowed it. He didn't.

Then Jack pulled back the green sheet. Ianto felt himself recoil and would have ended up on the floor behind the bed had it not been hands on his shoulders, apparently having anticipated the reaction. "What do you see, Ianto?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a white bandaged hand on his shoulder. Fancy that, Owen hadn't let him fall, though a cracked skull was far more difficult to deal with than a skittish patient. "Her," was all Ianto could manage, feeling like he'd some how failed Jack's test and acknowledging at least on some level that proved Tosh's theory wrong.

"Your mother?" At Ianto's nod, Jack pointed at her. Head full of dark curls, spilling over the edge of the table, face slack but still his mother's cheekbones, her nose. Nothing like his nose, a slight bump at the bridge, straight and thin. "That's not your mother. It's not even female." Ianto opened his mouth to protest but Jack cut him off, hand rapping on her skull with so much force he flinched in both protest and shock.

Plastic-like. Almost metal. Definitely not the sound of flesh hitting flesh.

"It's wearing a helmet and a full body-suit with biosystem controls that made it invisible to our eyes. We," and Jack stressed the 'we,' gesturing to the others, "don't see a woman. We didn't even see _it_ until I deactivated its technology."  
   
"But..." Ianto scooted off the table, unsteady, but shuffled in the slippers over to the table. He hadn't seen his mother this close for so long; he nearly retreated to his desk in the Information Center -- the furthest point he could run from the autopsy room -- but he didn't, compelled either by curiosity or sheer stubbornness to redeem himself for his actions earlier. Jack didn't move, standing at the edge of the bed as Ianto approached, arms crossed while Ianto tentatively extended his hand. Not to her face, but to the hair, the color of perfect espresso. Jack tracked his every movement - hell, Ianto knew everyone was watching - but he didn't care as he reached for the hair, certain Jack was mistaken because he knew what he saw.

The chill of the table burned when he touched metal instead of hair, his hand jerking back so quickly he nearly hit Jack. "No," he denied vehemently. What he perceived as real did not match what his hands said. Ianto squeezed his eyes shut and gave his head a shake, physically clearing the scattered images so he could see what the others saw. When he opened them again, for just a fraction of a second he swore he could see what Jack claimed. It was gone just as quickly, just a desperate imagination he knew. The figure of his mother on the table was undeniable, as was the color of her dress (purple, she'd always loved purple) and the blue of her eyes. Shaking his head, Ianto backed away from the table, the blanket nearly choking him as he pulled it tighter around his shoulders.

"Owen took a blood sample and I want a full neural work-up before I send you home." Jack's tone was far more comforting than it had been before. Concerned, they were all concerned. Ianto didn't blame them. He was seeing his dead mother and he'd shot her. _He_ was concerned with himself.

"Just...the weapon, she had a weapon, yeah?" Ianto wasn't pleading with Jack, but he had to know in part for his own sanity, in part so when he Archived it later it wouldn't catch him by surprise. If it was real.

Jack covered the head again (but still dark curls hung over the edge of the table), stepping close to rest his hands on Ianto's shoulders. "It had an anti-particle weapon in its hand. Could have done terrible things to my hair." Ianto smiled as Jack expected him to, though he didn't feel it, not really. It was just a standard reaction to typical Harkness 'we almost died but I'm going to deflect and make it about me to minimize the threat to you' humor. "You did good, Ianto. Whatever reason you saw it, you stopped a very bad day for Torchwood."

'Well, good for bloody Torchwood,' Ianto wanted to say, but he bit his tongue, nodding instead and submitting to Owen when he came around for tests and the like. Questions and poking, lights and scans, testing everything from alien infection to microchips to brain tumor.

Good day for Torchwood. But as Ianto was directed to piss in a cup and shoved off towards the loo, he could argue it'd been a shit day for him.


	2. Chapter 2

He'd overslept.

Ianto stared at the coffee machine in disgust, impatiently waiting for espresso to hiss and spit out the end of the nozzle. The rest of the team's coffees were already made, just a double shot for him left to brew.

He never overslept.

His internal clock consistently woke him up at five, no matter what had happened the night before or the genuine reason to stay in bed. That night, Jack had taken him to his flat after Owen had finished his testing (some of it made up on the spot just to torture him, Ianto was certain of that) and had followed in, not asking, but Ianto wasn't about to turn him away. He hadn't said anything, however, just directed Ianto towards the bedroom after placing a glass of whisky in his hand with a silent order to drink it. Ianto had followed without question, swallowing the contents in one gulp and felt the alcohol burn all the way down to his stomach and shoot out across every cell, the individual nerve bundles collapsing after the strain of the day. The springs popped as the tension unwound until he felt larger than the space he occupied in the room; numb and weightless with the heavy images of his mother pressing from the dark corners. Jack left him for a moment and Ianto just sat on the bed, eyes closed, every slow breath like fire and tasting of whisky until he was sure the air itself was drunk.

Jack had returned, his quiet footfalls warning Ianto so he didn't startle when the bed dipped, nor did he protest when the hoodie and tee (both Jack's, though Ianto had never seen Jack wear them in all the time he'd known the man) were pulled over his head. He did arch a questioning eyebrow when his trousers were removed, however; while Jack was an exceedingly attractive man, sex just seemed beyond Ianto's capabilities at that point. Unexpectedly, all he received was a chaste kiss, too quick to be leading towards anything remotely serious, before Jack patted the bed. Ianto obliged, laying as indicated on his stomach.

Ianto never failed to appreciate how Jack knew when silence was required, every movement and look volumes louder than any spoken word and far more appropriate. To be sure, they talked, often, Jack sharing stories from his past, Ianto sometimes so close to the verge of sleep he dreamt of the tales - the worlds Jack had visited, the creatures he'd met, the adventure and drama playing out in visions of purple skies and orange earth. But there were other times, like that night, when Jack just _knew_ , and as the older man's legs settled into their straddle of Ianto's hips, silence said everything.

The first drop had surprised Ianto, cool on his skin as it and others pooled between his shoulder blades. Then Jack's hands swept the scented oil over his skin and Ianto was lost, first in the gentle massage that warmed then loosened every taunt muscle in his shoulders, and finally to sleep as Jack's quiet hum and tender hands lulled Ianto away from warring thoughts.

And then he'd overslept.

The possibility of a sedative in the whisky wasn't entirely out of the question; in hindsight Ianto should have been suspicious. With the new day had come clarity and Ianto stared at the coffee machine as the details aligned themselves, though he willed the machine to go faster since he was already late to daily morning meeting. It was a possibility, but he'd not woken with any lingering aftertaste or residual sedative hangover, the latter being the primary reason why he avoided the drugs. He didn't even remember dreaming, which was equally unusual. Standard Torchwood nightmares were commonplace, mixed in with a variety of the surreal and fanciful. And sometimes Jack. He always remembered, though, especially the nightmares. But this time he remembered nothing, no hint or fragment or scattered wisp of a thought. Just sleep.

Sleep and waking up late.

Finally the espresso, colored just as his mum's hair, started trickling into the special Italian-made cup he reserved for those who wished to enjoy an unadulterated espresso. Every coffee had its cup, and every cup had its person. Today, Ianto's was small, delicate and naked.

He scowled at the cup at this consideration, hoping no one else paid attention to the mug or the philosophy of the king of coffee. He did check, however, to make sure he was indeed clothed and his tie straight before he arranged the beverages on a serving tray, specifically ordered for balance for distribution. Ianto kept his footfalls silent as he walked, pausing out of visual range yet where he could still overhear the conversation carrying on in the conference room.

"-clean. No signs of pathogen or toxin in his bloodwork. No implants, no tumors...hell, even his hair samples came back clean, no indication of drug use or illness."

"Toshiko?"

"The body suit was designed specifically to negate visual recognition within the range of our perception. It's really remarkable, actually, based on quantum physics we haven't discovered yet-"

Ianto hated being subject matter for the daily meetings. At least with Lisa, he had been absent during the fallout and whether or not he was discussed...well, he didn't know and didn't care to find out. But he had a rather vested interest in the reporting occurring in his absence now. Taking a deep breath and making sure his spine was as straight as possible, he braved the conference room, not bothering to care who he interrupted as he entered. "I've always had a rather high sensitivity to electromagnectic fields." The team at least looked moderately abashed for discussing him without his presence. "Might have led to the symptoms, given the mechanics of the suit."

He didn't apologize for being late, just passed out the mugs, setting them down deliberately on the coasters with the Torchwood emblem and ignored the scattered Starbucks cups sitting carelessly on the table top. Tosh thanked him, making a show of sipping her soy latte (half decaf, no whip with chocolate shavings). Gwen and Jack looked up a bit guilty from theirs, stammering thanks while Owen looked like he wished the world to swallow them all alive for enjoying their beverages when he couldn't. Served him right for all the tests the night before.

"Tosh?"

"That's possible." Ianto sipped his espresso and smiled behind the cup as he watched Tosh's eyes light up with the excitement of discovery. The others looked relieved at this as well; apparently a plausible, normal explanation of any sort was worth relief. "Exposure to high EMFs is said to lead to paranoia, hallucinations, nausea." Tosh smiled apologetically for the hallucinations portion, but Ianto just shrugged; he was the one who'd brought it up, after all. "If you're sensitive enough to it, the suit may have put off a large enough field to trigger the paranoia and the image of your mother, making you see...well, a ghost."

The silence following Tosh's explanations lasted long enough for Ianto to finish his espresso; he really wanted nothing more than to hide for the next few days in the Archives until the team forgot about the whole incident. He wouldn't - he _couldn't_ \- but it was enough walking around with the visuals and knowledge in his head. He didn't need the pitying looks from Gwen or the studious gaze of Owen as he tried to puzzle Ianto out, possibly blame it on aliens just for an excuse to try out a number of remedies for sake of annoying and embarrassing Ianto.

"I'd like to run a few tests, activate the armor in a controlled environment, if you wouldn't mind?"

Tosh looked so hopefull Ianto didn't have the heart to tell her no. He nodded (to her delight; it seemed Owen wasn't the only one who enjoyed subjecting him to tests), running a finger around the lip of his cup as he began mentally going through artifacts in the Archives that he could use to distract Tosh if he needed to refocus her on something less ... him-related.

"Fine. Ianto, no field work for a week, just to be sure there's nothing else going on." Ianto didn't mention that it hadn't been on active field duty that he'd encountered the problem for fear of being lashed to the coffee machine for a week by a well-intentioned (if not slightly overprotective) captain. Not that Jack wasn't overprotective of the entire team - to a fault, if Ianto were to be asked - but Jack might get ideas about confining Ianto to the Hub for protection and they could no longer Retcon Owen. "Tosh, keep up your research on the suit. We need to know if we can track wearers so this doesn't happen again. Dismissed." Ianto stood with the rest, a week of no field duty meant plenty of time re-cataloging and cross-referencing the Archives. "Not you."

He rolled his eyes at the tone, but moved to a seat closer to Jack while the others filed out. He could hear Gwen's eager questions about ghosts all the way down the hall and around the corner; seemed her aunt thought her home was haunted and Gwen wondered if there was anything they could use to test the EMF readings in her house. The door closed behind Owen, considerate of him, and Ianto spoke up before Jack could start. "I'm sorry for my tardiness this morning, I overslept."

Jack waved off the apology, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, cradling his mug of coffee in both hands. "You can take time off, if you need to. We can survive without you for a few days. Can't guarantee the state of the Archives, but we could manage. For a couple days."

Ianto smiled briefly, acknowledging Jack's attempt at humor. "Time alone in my flat doing nothing would be worse, but thanks." Time alone with the memories of shooting his mother. Nothing could have been more worse.

"That line about EMFs was bullshit."

He snorted; he couldn't help himself. Trust Jack to skip all finer points and jump directly to the one faulty argument. "I know. The effect should have worn off soon after you disabled the body suit." Ianto frowned, staring at his hands as he flipped a pen between his fingers. "Owen says my labs came back clean. I don't know what happened but I don't need everyone spending days trying to figure out why I saw my mum and you didn't."

"Do you know why?"

"What? God, no." The pen flipped out of his hands, skittering across the table until Jack calmly stopped it. Ianto was too flustered to even muster an apology. "Jack, I have no idea. If I had my choice of visuals I would have opted to shoot an alien over my mum for fuck's sake!"

Jack nodded, settling back in his chair like he hadn't accused Ianto of...whatever it had been. Popping alien narcotics? Making it up? Knowing the answer and not revealing? Jack was warped enough for his position as head of Torchwood Three, Ianto decided. "How'd she die?"

Ianto gave up all pretense of composure and slumped back in his seat with a sigh. He knew the question had been coming, and really it was better from Jack than any of the others. They had an understanding between them - Jack wouldn't push, Ianto could choose to answer. Went vice versa; they both did their fair share of avoiding, but they never lied. At least, Ianto trusted that Jack never did. Ianto didn't, and he'd quickly learned what was game and what wasn't, as had Jack. Family had always been avoided, on both sides.

And now, he could tell Jack, or he could push him off yet again, burying family within memory and no where else. He fully expected Gwen to rope Tosh in on a hunt for information once she learned nothing was in his files, and they'd have a hard time finding anything as he had been very thorough with the data wipe. Or rather, the hacker who'd owed him a dozen favors had been thorough in erasing/altering all the records at Ianto's request before he'd signed on with Torchwood One.

His family might as well be ghosts. He just wasn't exactly sure who it was he was trying to protect anymore - his family or himself.

Running a hand through his hair, he settled finally with his hands behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Jack waited patiently for an answer or a 'no.' Gwen would find nothing in her search. Tosh would let it go after Gwen quit pushing and Jack would let the subject drop if he wanted. He didn't have to answer. It'd be so easy to say 'no.' He just couldn't remember a time when someone had honestly asked, with no motive and no threat to either his mother's memory or his job. "Suicide," Ianto finally answered, hearing but not seeing Jack's chair clunk down on all four legs, "Room 314 of Providence Park."

He took a quick glance at Jack who'd pitched forward, elbows resting on his knees, his fingers laced under his chin and touching his lips almost as though he was physically stopping himself from saying anything. Maybe he was; if it were possible, Jack would figure out a way to accomplish it. Ianto laughed at the idea, then realized how ridiculous he must sound and cut himself off before Jack called Owen in. He freed his hands from behind his head, using his fingertips to press against the burning in his eyes. It helped, for a time.

"I tried to take care of her, did for years." He snorted at the enormity of the task, but it'd been the only thing to make sense at the time, even if it had been incredibly foolish. They had no other family, so he'd simply done it rather than risk separation. "She just...kept getting worse. I was gone on Christmas day - had a job cleaning a church - and she started a fire in the kitchen. Burned the house down; the neighbors barely got her out and all she kept saying was that 'they were coming.'"

And not for the first time Ianto berated himself for allowing things to deteriorate that far. It'd been so insidious, a slow creep towards instability where excuses for her eccentricities failed and he could barely recognize her for the woman she had been almost ten years before. He sighed and finished the story; what little there was remaining. "She spent five months at Providence before she...I was supposed to visit the next day."

Ianto smiled sadly at the memory. While he'd hated seeing her in that place, he'd always looked forward to seeing her, playing draughts and letting her win in outrageous fashion or reading to her when the medications and her own realities stole her attention. Twice a week - more if he could cut class or wasn't working. Jack smiled with him, despite there being no way he had a clue what memory was trickling across Ianto's mind. But at the same time, it was almost better with _the captain_ not knowing, and with _Jack_ joining blindly in an emotion Ianto wasn't sure he wanted to describe.

He was abruptly pulled to his feet, stumbling forward until he found his balance wrapped in a full-bodied hug. It took him a moment to realize how and why he'd moved, relaxing instead of protesting as was his first instinct. He didn't think Jack would let go even if he'd complained about the manhandling or reminded him they were at work in an embrace inappropriate for employer and employee.

And if Ianto were completely honest with himself, he enjoyed the sympathetic touch.

"My mother's name was Nydia."

The words were spoken so soft at first Ianto thought he'd imagined them. Given his track record of late, that idea wasn't too far-fetched. But he'd felt the breath wisp past his ear, and that certainly hadn't been imagined. "Isolde," Ianto replied, knowing he hadn't been asked but offering it just the same. It felt good, to say it just once, to have someone listen and not call her crazy or mock her when they thought he wasn't listening. He hadn't spoken her name in nearly a decade.

He wondered how long it had been for Jack.

"You were just a kid."

Ianto took the words for how they were intended, not an admonishment for the guilt or grief but for the respect he heard behind the words. "I never was much of a kid." And he hadn't been, working whatever job he could find that would pay him when even they didn't believe the lies of his age; it helped that he'd always been tall for his age. But he'd taken care of her, even if now he realized it wasn't 'just mum being mum' and she'd been outside his ability to tend.

He'd do it all over again if he had to. She'd been the only family he'd had left.

Jack chuckled, low and dry. Whether in agreement, amusement or simply a private joke, Ianto wasn't sure, but he closed his eyes, falling into the steady sway as Jack danced them in a slow circle. There were a million things to do around the Hub, and the team was probably thinking whatever they wished to think Jack and he were up to in the conference room, but for once, Ianto didn't care about office rules or work or even the CCTV footage Tosh was most likely tapping into. He rested his head against Jack's shoulder, and Jack's against his.

He was willing to bet they both weren't ever really kids.


	3. Chapter 3

Two days later and things were back to normal, or as normal as Torchwood ever got. Owen was still dead, Jack was still immortal, Tosh was still freakishly adept with technology, Gwen was still ... human ... and Ianto, well, he considered himself still breathing. And while that may have seemed like a minor point on anyone's scale of normalcy and things to consider 'good,' given it was Torchwood, Ianto considered himself lucky. He made the coffee, spent most of his free-time in the Archives, avoided the team best he could - made easier by his suspension from field duty - and focused on compartmentalizing the whole experience with the alien and the hallucination. Because that's all it was. Overwork, exhaustion, living and breathing Torchwood until it became second-skin. That's all it was.

Avidly monitoring the CCTV footage and sensors because there was something about the case that left him uneasy for the safety of the team was just exhaustion, too. His mind playing tricks on him, alone in the Hub while the others were off defending Cardiff from the greater threats of the universe. Wishful thinking, more like. He'd become so much a part of the team in the field that, when they were out, he began imagining what they were searching for. The overwhelming urge to save the day, to taste that high from rescuing someone from a threat manifesting through the fatigue as a sort of fear for the team. It made sense. No cause for panic or alarm.

He just hadn't mentioned it to Jack because the team had come back splattered in fluorescent pink alien guts and reeked of paint thinner, Tosh with a sprained wrist, Jack once-dead-now-living, Gwen with a limp and Owen bitching about his favorite pair of pants.

Ianto threw his keys into the small dish in the entrance way of his flat, rubbing his hand over his face, wincing when they still smelled of paint thinner. Or rather, alien guts with the tenacity of skunk spray. Jack had said he'd be by later, with dinner. That in and of itself had surprised Ianto, but he wasn't going to argue if Jack wanted to take responsibility for dinner. Ianto would have time for a quick shower, maybe even time to catch up on some of the work he'd brought home. Stacks of paperwork he'd put off while the team had been in the field filled his briefcase, along with a few harmless artifacts and documents he could record and place in the Archives in the morning. One apparently was an alien toothbrush; he'd been a bit squeamish about touching it, there was just something inherently wrong about touching another's toothbrush. He'd even purchased one for Jack (and threw away his old one) after he'd caught Jack using his one morning. Blue, with sparkles in the handle. For some reason, it made him laugh every time Jack used it.

He turned on the lights, wincing as they flared on bright to light his flat. Really too much time spent in the dim Hub, Ianto decided, cancelling the second and fifth light switches, a hazard of their job. Underground, poor lighting, it was a wonder they all weren't blind by the time they were thirty and could stand to enter the daylight at all. Perhaps that's how Torchwood would survive in the future, their DNA altering to become night dwellers, the dark vampires of lore. Owen was already working on the undead problem, though the notion of consuming blood was one to turn his stomach and make him thankful Jack never forgot Ianto's switch to vegetarianism. Nearly becoming meat himself had put him off quickly; the alien manatee had cemented any lingering taste for it.

Unless the meat was Jack.

Ianto smirked at his own joke as he sorted the paperwork into piles of urgency, leaving the rest of the various widgets and gadgets in the briefcase. The pile for 'immediate attention' grew at an alarming rate, and with an eye he quickly calculated the time required to work through the stacks. Far more than he had initially figured when he'd packed his briefcase. With a grimace, Ianto opted to put aside the paperwork, procrastination the preferable choice when the evening was to consist of Jack, food, maybe a movie, sex and sleep.

Definitely sleep. And perhaps even a repetition of sex in the morning.

Instead, Ianto went to the kitchen and quickly mixed up a batch of scones to enjoy with morning coffee. Not that he was really much of a baker - working for the Smythe's bakery had taught him little of the trade but how to sweep up flour and empty bins - but Taffy Smythe herself had taught him the simple recipe as a surprise for his mum. They were cheap to make, difficult for him to screw up too badly and his mum's favorite with tea.

It'd been a long while since he'd bothered making them, though he always kept the ingredients on hand. Out of habit, and partially to thumb his nose at his past; a stocked pantry was a wealthy pantry.

After placing the pan of carefully cut dough rounds in the oven, Ianto once again considered the paperwork before opting for a shower to wash away the long hours of the day and the smell of turpentine in an efficient (lemon-vanilla scented, both energizing and a combination Jack seemed to appreciate) scrub that left his skin pleasantly tingling. He didn't waste any time, knowing he had just minutes before the oven timer would buzz, though he did pause, contemplating wanking before dismissing that notion as well. Jack was coming over, after all. There'd be time enough for pleasure later.

Ianto threw on a pair of pajama bottoms, a deep cranberry pinstripe he'd purchased simply with hedonistic intentions rather than Jack's accusations that he couldn't wear anything that wasn't tailored and professional in appearance. The material was the softest cotton-silk Ianto had touched, light and cool on his skin and an indulgence he enjoyed whenever he had a lengthy evening at home. Rare, given Torchwood, but occasionally he found himself with time to luxuriate in something as frivolous as expensive pajama bottoms.

He'd just loosely tied the drawstrings when Ianto heard a knock at the door. Jack never knocked as he had a key, just as he did to all the other team member's flats but Ianto doubted Jack just strolled in without so much as a courtesy knock on their doors. Given it might be a neighbor and some of those neighbors had young children, Ianto grabbed a black tee as he went to the door, stretching it over his head as he walked, nearly tripping over his own feet when, for a moment, he couldn't see the path to the door. Perhaps the paperwork should be avoided altogether, he decided, if he couldn't even manage to walk and pull a tee over his head. It hadn't even been that bad of a day.

Upon opening the door, Ianto quickly set about revising that notion.

"Ianto?"

Rationally, Ianto knew the truth of the man standing in his doorway just as rationally he knew now that what he had seen at the Information Center was not his mother. Logically, he understood that his difference of perception was not normal and the question still lurked behind Jack's eyes (and in the back of Ianto's consciousness, if he were to be honest with himself) as to the cause. There had to be a cause, an explanation, a reason why he had seen his mother -- why even after he had been told the figure was not even female he still saw his mother.

Because there had to be an equally logical cause and explanation as to why his father stood in his doorway.

Ianto stared; he couldn't help himself. Before him stood the man he hadn't seen in nearly twenty years and no rational argument or logic could dissuade his eyes from believing what they saw. It wasn't real; Ianto knew it couldn't be real. But knowing it wasn't real and wishing it was were two completely different things.

His father looked just as Ianto remembered, though the angle was different. Instead of looking up into his face, Ianto looked down, his father no longer the towering figure he'd always appeared. He was still a gangly man, all arms and legs just like Ianto remembered, and impeccably dressed in the brown suit he had worn the day he'd died, brown the exact shade of the wire-framed glasses he wore and brown making his blond hair appear even more golden.

"Are you okay?"

The vision had his father's voice as well, only it didn't. Split, bi-tonal, sounding in the same breath distinctly like Ianto's father - a light tenor pitch, distinctly masculine, unrushed and soothing - and a woman, a voice he recognized but couldn't place for all the distraction of the hand placed on his arm. A gold wedding band gleamed on the ring finger.

Not his father. It wasn't his father, not even if that was his wedding band.

"Fine." Ianto winced at the sound of his own voice, unsteady and clouded by emotion's strangle-hold on his throat. Almost twenty _years_ ; before he'd discovered Torchwood, before he'd wandered the streets, before childhood's end when his mum's mind had splintered, fragile as spun glass after his father had died, tiny pieces breaking every day, every week, every year until nothing remained but paranoia and altered realities. Despite all that time, he'd never forgotten what his father had looked like, even though all the photographs had burned.

But Ianto had forgotten that look, that look he'd received when he was just little, he'd been running and fallen, skinning his knee and tearing his trousers. His father had run out of the house at the sound of his cries, crouching beside him and looking at him in the same concerned way, the _same exact way_ , before gathering Ianto in his arms to carry him into the house. A plaster and bowl of ice cream later and Ianto had been laughing again, helping his father measure everything from the length of Ianto's nose to the distance of Ianto's best hop with the ever-present measuring tape.

Clearing his throat, Ianto smiled in what he hoped was an assuring smile, never forgetting that it couldn't be his father but yet unable to tear his eyes away. "I'm fine, just a bit under the weather."

"Right." Ianto could hear the doubt in his (not) father's voice, the feminine tones curling up and around the tenor. "Well, I got some of your post by mistake." A handful of paper envelopes ended up in his hand which visibly shook no matter how hard he tried to steady it. "You sure you're okay? I could make some ginger tea?"

He nearly laughed. His father had gotten his post by mistake. It was the most ridiculous thing he'd never thought he'd hear.

"No, thank you." Ianto turned down the offer, the lure of sitting down with his father too tempting when he _knew_ it couldn't possibly be him. He'd sit and stare, memorize every movement that did not belong to his father, tarnishing memories and imposing a reality that just were not possible. It wasn't real. Ianto kept repeating this even as he stared, his eyes contradicting his brain's mantra.

"Get yourself to bed, then. You look terrible."

He tried to smile at the words, the advice sound given his shaking hands and relative inability to move past the thought of his father, standing at the door because he'd received Ianto's post by mistake. He stared even long after the door had closed and his father vanished, a reprisal of a theme nearly twenty years before when his father had left and never returned.

The door closing behind him as he waved goodbye to son while the son waved goodbye in reply; the chapter closing on another life, another time, over and over as history repeated itself. Ianto only wondered what his mother would say, had she been alive to watch him leave again.

He refused to consider that maybe she had seen exactly that, lost in her own world, when he'd read to her while they sat on a sunny bench on Providence Park grounds.

***

"Ianto?"

The sound of his name reverberated in Ianto's ears, striking off the memories of his father and collapsing the veritable picture show he'd been watching since 'he' had left. _He_. It hadn't been his father. He knew and was fully aware of it. But the memories were so old, the history so faint that it had been impossible not to sink within them once 'he' had left, closing the door behind him. They were hard to grasp, glimpses of Ianto's childhood framed in sometimes fuzzy colors and strange order, but seeing his father had triggered them all. And greedy though it was, Ianto couldn't resist embracing each one. Going to the cinema. Watching his father work. A trip to the zoo. Bedtime stories and goodnight kisses. Skinned knees and playing in the rain. The one time his parents had taken him on a picnic and he'd pretended they were in King Arthur's court, dining on the grounds of Camelot.

Those were the days of his childhood, the tiny sliver of time when he could remember no sorrow, no grief, no struggle to survive. They weren't perfect days - he knew there were things he was conveniently forgetting because they didn't match the idyllic nature of the memories - but they were the closest thing Ianto had to simple, carefree times, times when he wasn't mourning the death of his father or dealing with the slow decay of his mother's mind.

They'd been a happy family.

Overwhelming in all its peacefulness and multitude of snapshots, Ianto was reluctant to slip away from the vise memory held, almost desperate in his attempt to capture every tiny moment anew. No, he knew he was desperate and the tingle of awareness that his name had been spoken was acknowledged and equally dismissed.

Toast. Ianto connected amusement with the memory, images of his father vainly scraping off the blackened sections into the sink to disguise the fact that he'd done it again. He always burned the toast. Every time. To the extent that his mother finally banned him from attempting to make toast or anything else. A chef his father was not, Ianto remembered, could almost hear his father stating that if he were meant to cook then cakes would come with zippers and toast with hems.

Ianto imagined his coffee and tea would have been dreadful as well, but that was long before he could appreciate them.

"Ianto!"

Like a film reel snapping, wildly spinning with two tails flapping in the air, Ianto felt his attention break and the screen go blank as his shoulders struck something solid, the physical touch jolting him from his reverie. He protested before he could stop himself, rationally knowing that any attempt to recapture the wisps of the past would be as likely as stopping time but he tried anyway, pushing back physically and with a vocal "no!" while trying to chase down the images of his father dissolving into his past, becoming nothing more than a blurred lump of entangled experiences forming who he once was.

Lost again. His father had stepped out the door, closing it behind him just as he had that morning so long ago, never to return. But Ianto could still smell the burnt toast, burnt and scraped into the sink quickly before his mum would spot him, though the smell would always linger, a telltale sign she never missed.

Ianto scowled as the smell remained, long after the mental images had scattered to the wind. Remained and tickled the back of his throat to the point he had to cough. And he did, both coughing and clearing his throat, the taste of burnt toast on his tongue.

"Shit. The scones." Awareness had his heart pounding against his ribs as panic set in, his mind quickly rifling through memory backwards from knock on the door to the shower to setting a timer. The timer. He didn't hear the time but he could smell the scones burning; frantic he shifted his body to stand, moving his hands to push himself off the floor but he _couldn't_. Couldn't move, couldn't stand because he couldn't get leverage because his hands wouldn't move. His hands... _oh_.

He blinked, the back of his head colliding with the wall in surprise as he tried desperately to get his breathing under control. _Jack_. Jack was there, holding his wrists, though when he had arrived Ianto wasn't quite sure because he didn't remember the door opening or Jack entering, and wouldn't he be offended to learn Ianto had missed his approach. "Jack," Ianto tried to pull his hands away to stand but Jack wouldn't budge, and Ianto needed to do something before Jack rang the fire brigade. "Let go, the scones are burning."

"Were. I took care of them." Jack's statement gave Ianto pause, he could feel his forehead wrinkle as he tried to figure out how much time had passed while he sat on the floor. He didn't think it had been long, he remembered the door closing and he'd sat with his back against the wall, cherishing all the fleeting memories seeing his father had triggered. But he couldn't remember Jack's arrival nor the timer going off which certainly would have alerted him before the scones burned. Wouldn't it have? The grip on his wrists loosened, though Jack didn't remove his hands; one thumb softly circled the skin on the inside of Ianto's wrist as though to soothe him. It was working, no matter how Ianto wanted to deny he needed to be treated like some skittish animal. "Where were you, just now?"

They didn't lie, not to each other. But Ianto had to admit to himself he was seriously considering it given how the situation looked and what it would sound like. Even inside his own head, the self-deprecating tones mocked him. He scared himself, truth be told. "My post," Ianto evaded, pulling his hands away to search the floor, not having the faintest notion where he'd left it. Not that it was important in the grand scheme but that was what had initiated the sight of his father. "A neighbor, I think, brought it-"

He stopped himself when Jack reached down near his feet, slowly bringing up a pile of envelopes that Ianto had misplaced. He couldn't even look at Jack, whether due to embarrassment or denial he wasn't sure but he found the tiled floor far safer than the eyes of his boss. Lover? Too archaic. Partner, perhaps. Friend assuredly, though he wasn't sure which face Jack wore now and he didn't much care to find out. The most unnerving thing was what Jack didn't say as Ianto looked at everything but him - that he didn't ask what the hell was going on or demand answers. He just waited patiently while Ianto glanced through the envelopes, then waited some more while Ianto struggled to his feet, knees stiff from having sat for a time in the same position.

And waited more while he stared at the door, trying to figure out what happened for himself, pacing to and fro in the entranceway in frustration when he failed. Miserably.

It made no sense. It made absolutely no sense.

For something, _anything_ to do with his hands that twitched constantly (and no amount of running them through his hair would calm the need to anxiously wring them), Ianto instead followed his nose to the coffee table where bags of food were set. At first he was curious why they were there instead of the dining table, but then he remembered spreading piles of paper out. Seemed a lifetime ago, but it must have been a matter of an hour or so. Chinese; he could smell the soy sauce on his lo mein, carried on the breeze from an open window. He nearly asked about that too, before he remembered the taste of burnt toast and the smell of smoking scones.

Jack followed, still waiting for an answer as Ianto sat on the couch and grabbed the nearest container of food and a set of chopsticks. Taking Ianto's lead, Jack sat on the chair across from him, selecting a dinner that had, prior to events, been intended to be the start of a quiet evening at home, just the two of them, no Torchwood or Weevils or Rift. And now... Ianto didn't even know what 'now' was, stabbing his chopsticks into the vegetable and noodle mix, spearing a mushroom with the skills of one using the utensils for the first time.

He wasn't hungry.

After contemplating the fascinating exterior of a mushroom and deliberately avoiding all thought of 'father' and 'Jack', Ianto returned the fungus to the container. He couldn't eat. He knew it, Jack knew it, even the chopsticks knew it, so he set the box aside, giving up all pretense of eating. Ianto caught sight of Jack doing the same, and fuck if he hadn't ruined their night. Not a date night, not exactly. But it'd been a night spent in. Jack had even picked up dinner.

Wasn't bloody fair.

"I think it was a neighbor," Ianto admitted as he rested his elbows on his knees, supporting his chin with his thumbs. He still didn't look at Jack; knowing what Jack was thinking as Ianto confessed something he wished to avoid. He'd seen the looks his mother had received, there at the end on those rare occasions when she left their house, and he didn't need to see them reflected on the face of the man he shared a bed with. "But I saw my father. I _heard_ my father."

Silence fell over the room, so thick in the air Ianto breathed the tension. He finally chanced a look at Jack, but couldn't read the expression on his face. Couldn't see _any_ expression, just blank, maybe a little concern, but empty of anything Ianto could discern.

And that scared him, far more than he had expected. Preemptively, Ianto started talking before Jack said anything, interrupting the drawn breath and opening lips. "Don't. Don't say anything." Ianto watched with some satisfaction as Jack's mouth snapped shut at his accusing finger and tone. "This isn't what you think. It's not like my mum's illness."

He could feel his voice growing hoarse and rising in volume despite his best attempts at maintaining a level pitch. That wasn't the response of a calm man. If he was so certain of what he was saying he'd be collected and explaining to Jack in a reasonable tone what had happened. But he could feel that slipping away as quickly as the images of his father at his door crept back into his head to hand him his post, over and over. "There's a rational explanation for this. Stress, delayed trauma response to London, an after-effect of the alien I saw as my mum, but there is nothing wrong with me. I just saw my dad, he handed me the post he got by mistake, and left. I am not going _mad_."

Ianto was on his feet by the time he was finished, or rather, when he ran out of things to say in his defense, pathetic a defense as it was. He rested his hands on his hips, refraining from a flinch when he was reminded that he'd just performed a monologue, brief as it was, clad in his pajamas. Impressive, really. It would surely convince Jack of the truth of his words.

Jack remained silent for some time, enough time to set Ianto's teeth on edge as he tried not to read into everything he wasn't saying, fingers tapping both with impatience and nerves. Finally, Jack spoke, his voice melting into every surface of Ianto's flat, warm and understanding rather than the cold distance Ianto had been expecting while saying the clinical and detached words threatening from the far corners of Ianto's mind. But they weren't anything close, and Ianto's relief left him breathless.

"What I was going to say, is your father deceased as well?"

Lacking any other option, Ianto jerked his head in an embarrassed 'yes,' affirming what Jack had already correctly presumed. He almost wished a Rift tear would open right in his flat, swallowing him bodily into another time, another place, another dimension, anywhere but there, standing before Jack and feeling more naked than he had ever felt. Raw and shamed, clad in pajamas and wearing a crack in his persona running far deeper than his betrayal of Torchwood to save Lisa. Love was an easy excuse, a normal, understandable flaw that could be exploited because everyone _knew_ what one would do for love. Love wasn't wrong; when it gleamed through fractured control, no one bothered.

But now Ianto found himself exposed beyond what he allowed others to see within his suits and ties, quiet pieces of himself pushed behind destruction and chaos, Torchwood and coffee. It was awkward and uncomfortable. Humiliating. Others simply weren't to know basic terrors itching at the subconscious, the haunting surreal forms that twisted into dreams of possibility. Fear of the dark would even be more acceptable, fear of snakes or flying; phobias were simple and admissible.

Ianto's dreams weren't of death and loss, of ruin and defeat to an invading alien army. No, his nightmares were of ruin of self, a complete divergence of reality into the paranoid and the fantasy, where control no longer existed but in the hands of others as they bed his body down for the night, tucking him into a room with padded walls that reflected the screams of his mind back upon himself. _That_ was what he feared, and he knew each disastrous Torchwood failure brought him one step closer to that threshold, that knife blade upon which all Torchwood danced but he quite possibly had the genes to assist the process.

He'd all but admitted as such to Jack, who was again waiting patiently for Ianto to speak.

The carpeting suddenly became very, very interesting.

He ran a hand through his hair, smelling both the sharp-mellow of his shampoo and the smoky bitter of the burnt scones, odors intermingling with the Chinese until he felt nauseous. Fuck, if it hadn't been for Jack, would he have noticed the burning scones in time? The thought shook him, his mind deliberately refusing to accept the similarities between his mother's accident and his with the scones. And wasn't that really the mark of sanity? Reality wasn't broken if he was aware, and he was aware insomuch as he recognized that spending time lost within his memories was foolish when the oven was on. He'd simply forgotten, distracted by the appearance of his father. Not appearance - vision, but not hallucination. Someone had been there, that meant he wasn't hallucinating. He just ... was stressed.

And seeing his dead parents. There were movies with this as a plot. Terrible movies; he never did finish one of them to see how they ended.

"Nearly twenty years ago." Ianto crossed his arms, wrapping them about himself as the breeze blowing in through the window carried both the scent of sweet rain and a chill, answering the request Jack never gave. Body language; he was failing miserably. Torchwood One had given him the training, all employees received it. Cursory, basic interrogation tactics and defenses. He was failing tone, body language, speech pattern ... hell, he probably could be read by the most inept psychic. Every learned trick for maintaining normalcy had been forgotten; he wasn't even going to attempt.

At least it was Jack who witnessed, not the police, not UNIT, and not Owen. Ianto gave a soft huff of laughter, shaking his head. "Looked just as I remembered, only shorter." Tearing his gaze away from the carpet, fascinating though the pattern might be in the ecru fibers, he risked a glance at Jack despite knowing almost instinctively that the other man's eyes hadn't left him since he'd arrived. His face was inscrutable, which did nothing for Ianto's nerves, stretched taut and quivering just waiting to be snapped. The visions weren't normal, Ianto knew they weren't normal. But for the life of him, he couldn't explain it. He didn't _know_.

And, he was willing to wager everything he owned, neither did Jack.

But he wasn't going mad. "There was nothing threatening about him. He just ... left."

"You're positive there's no danger?"

"Absolutely." Ianto wasn't sure how he was so convinced, but didn't hesitate when answering Jack's question. He didn't trust one parent more than the other or anything as foolish as that, but when he'd seen his father, there had been no overwhelming feeling of a threat as it had been when he'd seen his mother. Ianto worried his lower lip a moment before continuing, debating whether to mention it or not as it just compounded the matter of sanity. "When he spoke, I could hear both his voice and one that was feminine."

Jack's brow furrowed in thought and Ianto privately rejoiced in triggering a response of any kind. While he appreciated the unflappable patience, the later the hour the more Ianto grew nervous about Jack's silence. He wasn't looking for reassurance, not exactly; they weren't hearts and flowers. But when he could discern nothing from Jack's expression or action, the old niggling fear that something was terribly _wrong_ with him choked what little analytic logic he possessed.

"You think the one that handed you the post might have been female."

Statement, not a question. But it was what Ianto had began to assume, not to mention offering him ginger tea fit a few of his female neighbors' mothering personalities. He nodded, though the insight didn't really explain why he'd seen what he'd seen. Nothing did. Well, nothing rational. Ianto ran his hand through his hair again, trying to piece together his thoughts enough to figure out what to do and how to proceed. Should have been easy, there was standard protocol at Torchwood for such events, buried in the back of the employee manual but they were there, from alien mind devices to cracks in sanity, rare but did happen with the stresses of the job. Ianto knew them, had memorized the handbook when he'd started for fear there'd be tests that he could fail, that he might lose the first permanent position he'd held since he'd began working.

Problem was, he couldn't order his thoughts at the moment to remember the first page of the handbook, much less protocol buried in the back, and the harder he tried the more the pages fluttered in the wind as he desperately grasped at the information swirling about in the maelstrom of his mind. He knew, logically, that seeing his father was most likely the explanation for his rattled thoughts, but that was little comfort as he forced himself not to panic. "What am I supposed to do?" Ianto finally asked Jack, hands back on his hips for lack of clipboard or coffee mug or anything else to give his idle hands a focus.

Ianto held that stance even as Jack approached him, wary as to Jack's purpose but trusting him at least enough that whatever he intended, it would probably not involve a violent action to render him unconscious, followed by waking in a cell and labeled a threat to Torchwood. He might have flinched just a little when Jack's hands gripped his shoulders, but Ianto would deny it to his death.

"First, we're going to bed." The idea startled Ianto so much he opened his mouth to protest but nothing came out, prompting a grin - far softer than a typical Jack smirk which so often accompanied talk of beds - that surprised Ianto nearly as much as Jack's words. "Tomorrow, you'll submit to every test Owen thinks necessary, even the ones he makes up on the spot." Ianto felt himself nodding in agreement, though the ease may have had something to do with Jack's thumb circling his collar bone, hypnotically faint with just enough pressure to both anesthetize the skin as well as remind Ianto of its presence. The touch stopped, distracting Ianto from the lull, and made him even more aware of Jack's hands on his shoulders, fingers increasing in pressure as the hold tightened. "And you'll pack an overnight bag with things you'll need for a few days. You're staying at the Hub."

"No." Ianto understood immediately why Jack's hands had tightened on his shoulders as he tried to jerk away with the last order. Either he was weaker than he'd thought or Jack was that much stronger, but Ianto couldn't pull away, no matter how he tried. It wasn't that there was anything inherently wrong with the order; he'd shared Jack's bed overnight on more than one occasion. Ianto even had a suit tucked away in Jack's wardrobe. But removing the option that had always existed, the freedom to go _home_ , that kind of heavy-handed control of his life stank of something he would have done for his mother. "No," he repeated, stubbornly falling still within Jack's hands, "that's unnecessary and unwarranted. You can't keep me confined to the Hub like a bloody invalid."

Ianto saw the muscles clench and release in Jack's jaw as they stared at each other with equal measures of defiance, Jack's born from decades of practice and his own tenacious stubbornness and Ianto's from dealing with his mother and maybe just a hint of fear. "One week." Jack's voice was as clipped and determined as Ianto had heard it. "If your labs come back clear and you've not seen any other dead relatives, you're free to come back. That's an order."

"What? No!" Ianto managed to pull away, disbelief at the week-restrictions fueling his motions or maybe it was Jack's surprise that he would have the audacity to defy his orders. But when those orders felt so much like betrayal, defiance was easy. "Tests, yes. But you've no cause to lock me up."

"Lock..." Jack's mouth snapped shut as though Ianto had struck him, and from the way he rubbed his face Ianto almost wondered if he had. But he hadn't moved, still braced for whatever Jack had to argue. "Ianto." His name was spoken with such exasperation Ianto wondered if he'd missed some vital component of the conversation. "Staying at the Hub isn't about your mom's committal; there are legions of unknown devices in the Archives. Until we're sure you're safe, I don't want to find out you saw the face of your grandma in a bar of soap and drowned in the shower!"

Ianto stared with all words of protest forgotten in the back of his throat as he watched Jack first flail a hand at the kitchen in faint reminder of what had transpired that evening, then use those same fingers to pull him forward, stumbling, into the radiant heat of Jack's embrace. If Ianto's return of the hug was perhaps a little more desperate than was proper, Jack made no comment. And likewise Ianto said nothing of how Jack's hold tightened until he could scarcely breathe.


	4. Chapter 4

Nearly eight hours of overt observation (Jack, Tosh via the internal CCTV), not-so-subtle covert monitoring (Gwen, who would fail miserably as a spy), tests of every nature, and writing down every artifact he could remember coming into contact with for the past two weeks left Ianto in an incredibly foul mood. Not that he thought it should be any different - according to official Torchwood policy he ought to be confined to a cell - so he considered himself lucky by that account. But the constant, heavy weight of eyes on his back watching for the next chink and the conversations that ended as soon as he arrived, clumsily altered to discussions of the weather or the Rift, ratcheted his anxiety to new levels.

He didn't blame the team; he could practically _feel_ Tosh's concern when he'd handed her afternoon coffee. They were worried, but whether from protective self-interest or honest care for his wellbeing he couldn't discern. And if it made Tosh feel reassured to train the cameras on him wherever he went, he couldn't argue. However, his graciousness didn't kill the unsettling irritation crawling like bugs beneath his skin, distracting him from the perfect cup of coffee (twice remade) because he couldn't be trusted to work the bloody coffee machine without spooking. He might steam himself to death while making Gwen's coffee. And wouldn't that be one for the Torchwood books: Ianto Jones, death by latte.

Fuck, it'd be hilarious if it weren't so true. And he'd laugh, but laughter would most likely be misconstrued as a symptom of whatever ailed him; another tick box in Owen's notes, Tosh would add that to her search parameters and Gwen would tell him that perhaps a nap would do him well.

They'd watch and record, they _were_ watching and recording, and while Ianto desperately tried to understand and rationalize why, the hair on the back of his neck never relaxed. He'd spent eight bloody hours in a state of half-crazed adrenaline alert confusing his fight-or-flight until it felt like even Myfanwy watched, concerned and wary from her alcove.

If he wasn't mad, Torchwood would succeed in driving him there. Day one, confined to Torchwood Three's main Hub with nothing to do but pace, tidy up, and brew bloody coffee, as he'd been officially placed on restricted duty and couldn't even venture to the Archives without someone holding his hand to make sure he didn't get into trouble.

Nothing to do but think about what he'd seen, what he'd done.

In frustration, Ianto slammed his hand against the coffee machine, wincing when all he received for his effort was a stinging palm and a jarred shoulder when the machine didn't budge. He'd curse the thing if he thought it'd do any good, then realized someone had most likely witnessed that display as well. 'Subject prone to fits of violence and self-inflicted harm upon his person'; Ianto could almost see the annotated notes in Owen's reports, clinical and detached as a good doctor should be.

At this rate, he wasn't going to last a night, much less seven.

"Feel better?"

Eyes. Everyone watching. It wasn't paranoia if it was true.

Ianto spun slowly on his heel, not bothering to hide rubbing the sting from his palm as he faced Jack who leaned ever so casually against the pillar. Hands stuffed in his pockets and looking small without his greatcoat, Jack was almost the perfect picture of indifference. But Ianto knew that mega-watt, full-toothed smile which never was as honest as one believed it to be. "Would you care for some coffee?" Ianto asked, blatantly ignored Jack's question ; answering honestly would gain him nothing and Jack would see through the lies.

"It's only for a week."

"Only?" Ianto gave up pretence of maintaining any form of calm, stabbing into the air in the direction of the CCTV cameras, though he kept his voice down so at least the others wouldn't hear what he said. "Now I know what an animal in the zoo feels like, on display twenty-four hours a day."

"They're worried." Ianto didn't ask if 'they' included Jack, in part because he simply didn't want to know the answer, but also because thought derailed when Jack took hold of his injured hand and pressed his lips against the tender skin. Just a simple, small gesture, but one that deflated Ianto's fury and softened the angry line of his scowl when Jack moved the kiss from palm to lips. Maybe Jack did understand; it didn't make the monitoring any less invasive or the intrusion into his private frustration less unwanted, but Jack asked patience and forgiveness in the kiss melting Ianto's ire as completely as his body unwound and draped against the cabinets, losing individual shape until it identified as sharp angles and mirrored reflection of Jack.

"Come on, conference room." Ianto opened his eyes from the languid haze Jack had reduced him to, a slow burn that promised rather than demanded and Ianto found it difficult disengaging to focus on Jack's words laced with a touch of amusement. His unspoken question was answered, however, while Jack straightened the lay of suit coat for him. "We're going to be discussing you, I assumed you'd want to participate."

Bastard. He was so relaxed he could hardly work up the effort it would take to become outraged at the idea of the team conferring about him. Probably intentional on Jack's part. Most likely, given Jack's smirk, though his hands weren't smirking so much as encouraging as they made sure Ianto's suit was in order. He collected himself enough for what was most likely to be an uncomfortable conversation focused on him.

***

"I've sent his labs to Martha for a second opinion, but nothing abnormal in the scans or bloodwork, no trace of alien chip or compound, no injection sites or even a scratch."

Ianto should have been overjoyed at his labs returning normal but was instead quietly seething that Owen would have sent his files to _UNIT_ for fuck's sake, for a physician consult without informing him first. They'd already covered Gwen's inquiries with the police and A &E for anyone brought in displaying similar symptoms - all turning up empty. Then Tosh had launched into her theories ranging from Billis (as yet undismissed) to alien signal to an artifact in the Archives. Rather, the team discussed and Ianto primarily focused on maintaining a level of calm indifference as his entire history for the past two weeks was dissected and analyzed. And now his medical records were being flung about without his consent. He was fairly certain he had a say in their dispersal, but then, when did Torchwood Three ever follow the rules.

And now Jack and Owen were engaged in an exchange Ianto could only half-follow as they were speaking in partial sentences about something which they both were familiar with but left nameless. At least Tosh and Gwen looked as lost as he felt.

"So no..."

"No. No sign."

"You're sure?"

"I know what I'm looking for, Harkness, and no, no sign."

Ianto twisted the pen in his hand sharply, not breaking the barrel but feeling moderately better for the small action while the rest of him was held steady. Of course he didn't need to know what they were talking about. It was only his body and his life they were discussing as though it was the latest threat of the week. Frustrating, humiliating, hell, Owen even had a computer display for the results of the urinalysis, complete with bar graphs of white blood cells and protein counts as well as negatives for known drugs, both human and alien. He didn't think it was possible to hate the man more. And now he had no idea what they were discussing, only that it related to him and he was showing no sign.

Brilliant.

More images, more conversation about what it wasn't. No alien gas corrupting his bloodstream, no particles in his clothing, apparently despite his poor diet he was in perfect health, although his body temperature was slightly elevated, but given no indication of infection Owen discarded the information from relevancy. Comparison analysis run on the previous blood and DNA samples revealed no change.

No aliens, no nothing. Just Ianto.

"What if we're making this too complicated. Maybe it's not alien at all."

The general chatter died instantly at Gwen's words, well intentioned as though they might be, though Ianto was personally having a very difficult time finding any small measure of good intent. If it wasn't alien in nature, then there was only one other option he knew for the visions when his body was in perfect health.

Calmly, he set the pen down, perfectly perpendicular to his body with just a slight 'snap' as the plastic struck the table, parallel to the notepad he adjusted just _so_ until it too fell into alignment. And he breathed, he remembered to breathe through the stranglehold in his chest, panic held at bay for the moment but only just as the silence continued and all eyes turned on him. It might have been minutes, half an hour, or two seconds for all Ianto could tell, slipping back in the chair until his spine, straight and tall - no slouch - pressed firm into the thin padding. Every move was deliberate, every action purposeful to wrap himself in dense steel to deflect anything and everything. Straighten his tie, gently clasp his fingers in front of him with his elbows resting casually on the arm rests.

Small smile for PC Cooper. Remembered to breathe. "And in your expert opinion, what might be afflicting me if it's not alien?"

"Oh god, Ianto," Gwen clapped a hand over her mouth, looking about the room with, if Ianto were to be asked, a certain degree of desperation for someone to intercede. Ianto wouldn't have been that surprised at this point if someone had. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean...I don't think you're..."

"Insane?" _Breathe_ , Ianto reminded himself. No panic, no fear, no anxiety. Just calm, blue skies, a friendly conversation among friends. "If my faculties have been in any way diminished due to a mental illness, I believe any number of my earlier experiences would have broken me long before the stress of making you coffee or planning your wedding."

Her eyes grew large and Ianto swore he saw the gears shift to an alternate track. He should be kind, he knew her question wasn't completely out of line and his remark was far less than cordial. In fact, he'd be lying to himself to say he hadn't feared something similar. But if this was to be a conversation about his mental stability he would rather have not been invited. She didn't deserve the swipe -- his temper stressed to snapping -- but he couldn't bring himself to apologize.

"Lisa." She nodded in presumed understanding, a better friend than he as the comment struck her and still she tried to empathize. Gwen stretched out her hand to touch his arm and he wished he was on the other side of the table as in a proper police interview, no touching allowed for all the touch unnerved him. "Losing someone you love is traumatic, I think I'd lose my mind if I lost Rhys."

Ianto stared at the slim fingers resting on his arm and truly wished she would stop touching him. The wide-eyed, tearful compassion made him physically sick for as misplaced as it felt, or else it was her sweet perfume that was overwhelming in the closed conference room. But he believed it the first; it was wrong, her compassion was wrong, and while it was genuine, it didn't _fit_ in a way he couldn't explain but it made his jaw tighten as he restrained himself from jerking away. That wouldn't be proper or calm. He couldn't risk that.

For a brief, horrible moment, however, he guiltily acknowledged a small hope that whatever he had was catchable.

"It wasn't just Lisa." Tosh's vioce was timid but loud enough to stop whatever Gwen was going to say next, her lips snapping shut but she still left her hand on his arm, apparently to calm him? Perhaps calm herself. "Ianto survived the Battle."

Gwen's confused questions were interrupted by a welcome voice, even if it belonged to Owen. "Tea-boy's right, to some extent." Ianto hid his surprise as easily as he hid his anger, slowly averting his gaze from his arm (Gwen removed her hand at the snap of Owen's voice) to Owen who chewed a pen while his attention was on Ianto. Disgusting habit, Ianto found many half-chewed pens laying around the Hub. He would have called Owen on his oral fixation, but didn't since Owen never bitched about missing medical supplies. "But not perfect in practical application." A chewed pen cap was pointed in his direction and Ianto couldn't stop the small curl of his lip in distaste at the gnawed, twisted plastic. "You turned away all the psychiatrists I lined up for you. Why?"

This time, Ianto couldn't smother the startled expression, darting a quick look at Jack for explanation but the man just shrugged his shoulders and looked as surprised as Ianto felt. He'd thought maybe Jack in a fit of guilt had been behind the phone calls and attempts to confirm appointments, half-hearted attempts to slap plasters on a gaping wound. After Lisa, one had even showed up on his _doorstep_. He'd sent her away as easily as he had the others - when one had experience with how they worked, it was easy to speak their language. "That was you?"

Owen snorted and went back to chewing his pen, almost more pleasant than it being waved in his direction. "We were on site the next day retrieving the most dangerous alien artifacts and two of your lot are in such a state they show up ready to work, either not grasping or in denial that their building's gone." His chair spun as Owen enjoyed the attention, though Ianto's was purely disbelief. "I contacted a few people I knew, made sure the survivors had access to help. Asshole, not heartless."

Ianto shook his head slightly, more to clear his mind than in denial that Owen had just admitted to performing good which went unrecognized. And that he had a heart. It was like learning there was no Santa. "Thank you," Ianto said with utmost sincerity, still trying to wrap his brain around Owen and good deeds. "They were left to fend for themselves, I'm sure your help was appreciated."

He didn't look at Jack; didn't need to. Ianto could feel Jack's glare tearing pieces in his armor for the subtle jab directed at the leader of Torchwood Three. This would be brought up later in private conversation for certain. Perhaps not entirely fair as Jack had no responsibility for anyone at Torchwood One, nor had he ever voiced desire to be in any way connected to the outfit. However, Jack had been the sole remaining visible leadership within Torchwood ranks and he'd walked away with the tech and turned his back on the twenty-seven who'd survived. Maybe they deserved it; Ianto knew London's hubris had brought its own destruction. But apparently he still fostered a bit of subconscious resentment, tucked away behind duty and responsibility, memories and the present day. He'd blame it on stress for the deliberate stab at Jack in such a public forum except for the sudden awareness that the thought did exist and it felt remarkably good to voice.

Oh, they'd be discussing this later. He'd be lucky if he didn't get written up for insubordination. If Jack cared about things like employee paperwork; Ianto was hardly writing his own insubordination report.

Owen's nod was the only hint that he even recognized the thanks before he snapped back to the Owen Ianto recognized and was far more comfortable with. "Now answer the question. I'd refer to your medical history for an explanation, but that's right, you haven't any."

"Haven't any what?" Jack finally spoke up, though the conversation was veering quickly into a direction Ianto didn't want it to go. Nothing in front of the others, not in front of Owen; hell, he didn't even want to have it again with Jack. It wasn't pertinent to the conversation, it wasn't necessary to discuss any of the information shared thus far.

"Medical history. Family, vaccinations, injuries, illness. London was notorious for paperwork and records but Ianto's are a big nothing until he joined us."

Ianto lost whatever gratitude he had towards Owen and felt the comfort of the facade of calm slip over him again, tight as a glove and just as warm. He picked up his pen again, set it down once more on the notepad perfectly aligned down the center as he reminded himself to breathe, nudging the pad a little to the left, then back to perpendicular again as he gave himself a moment. What he wouldn't give to slip back into the shadows of Torchwood Three, working unnoticed by the others, his presence essentially forgotten until something was needed. The team was staring again; he could almost read the script Tosh was writing in her head to circumvent whatever had erased his files, to search down the missing history that wasn't so much missing as deliberately gone. His mother would not be a matter of Torchwood and he'd had little of a pre-Torchwood medical file to begin with. "All of which are of no importance to this investigation. My personal life has no bearing on the situation so I kindly ask you stay the fuck out." He smiled at the table without really looking at any of the faces, knowing the expression was just as empty as he intended.

Although, perhaps it wasn't a good thing to be demonstrating a change in behavior; he never cursed in front of the team. Yet another tick on Owen's checklist.

"Your personal life has a nasty habit of becoming a Torchwood situation."

"Enough!" Jack's interruption didn't distract Ianto from his stand-off with Owen. While the doctor was stubborn and intense, forehead knitted in concentration, his pen resting forgotten on his lips as he tried to figure out what he perceived a great mystery, Ianto remained as still and unaffected as ever, save for the incredible pressure he felt on every finger and joint as he restrained himself from reacting. He wouldn't, and he knew to the casual observer nothing would appear amiss. But he could feel it, a vibrating urge to _act_ in response to Owen's jab. Owen wasn't worth it, but the temptation was great.

Besides, his lack of response seemed to unnerve Owen and there was some satisfaction to that.

"Ianto's right, the information's not important now." Before Ianto's lips could curl into a smirk, Jack pointed at him and looked equally as determined as he had when addressing Owen. "However, if it does gain relevance then you'll inform your doctor. Clear?"

Not bothering to agree - he'd do it if ordered by his employer and Ianto trusted Jack enough not to abuse that privilege - Ianto instead refocused on the team, pointing to the CCTV camera in the corner. "No more of this. My life is not for your entertainment. If I need help, I'll contact you on the comms; if I'm needed for more tests, I'll answer." Ianto stood and gathered his pen and notepad as professionally as he could without appearing wooden. Not difficult, professionalism and decorum were standard operation procedure and training for London. "Notify me of meetings pertaining to new discoveries, if they're to discuss the state of my mental health, don't bother."

"Ianto, we don't think-"

"No." Ianto cut Gwen off before she could say anything more; he simply didn't want to hear it. "If you think it's necessary because you believe I've gone mad, then you shouldn't be discussing it in front of me. Otherwise, leave me alone, I'll not be party to these invasions of my privacy."

No one argued when he left.


	5. Chapter 5

Jack and he did argue later that night, restraining themselves with simmering tempers just shy of boiling till the others had left and they had the Hub to themselves, save for Myfanwy squawking irritably from her nest. They should have had more consideration for her, Ianto supposed, but the Hub was neutral ground and he didn't want the argument to seep into the bedroom. Literally. Besides, it gave them room to pace and work off the anger rather than compacting and intensifying the emotions until irreparable damage was done to either their persons or their relationship.

Nothing was held sacred or left high and secure on a shelf while the ground was kicked, beaten and scraped. Torchwood London. Lisa. The survivors. Jack leaving. Jack returning. Flat Holm and secrets. They yelled, they whispered, they asked questions and listened. They _fought_.

And in reflection, it had felt good.

It hadn't at the time - Ianto stressed beyond measure between the visions and the microscope he'd been placed under, and Jack frayed by frustration or worry or whatever had pushed him to give voice to his anger - and it seemed as though each point just fueled the next, escalating the argument until the house of cards fell, scattering at their feet to soften the steps as they tried to figure out where they stood, staring at each other with hands on hips, warily contemplating their next words.

Ianto had said he was going to bed; Jack offered his, with or without him in it.

He accepted neither, insisting on taking one of the camp beds in the spare room converted to a sleeping quarter for weary Torchwood employees when the long days were simply too long. He'd worried, for a moment, that Jack would misinterpret and read negatives into Ianto's decision that didn't exist, not when it came to he and Jack, no matter the words exchanged. After the day he'd had he just needed escape, a private moment to himself where he could collect his thoughts, review what had been said and, perhaps just once, replay the moment at his flat's door with his father. His own flat had been taken away, and while curling up with Jack, no matter their fight, had been appealing, he needed time to away. Alone.

He'd worried, but only for a moment. Jack had nodded, then gave a hesitant smile, low-watt, the shy one reserved when only Ianto watched and Jack was uncertain.

Ianto had reassured with a smile of his own.

The camp bed had been exceedingly uncomfortable and it'd taken Ianto hours to fall asleep. He wasn't sure if he ever did; maybe he just dozed while his mind spun on thoughts spiking from all angles of his life in vibrancy so blinding it was a wonder he didn't dream in technicolor 70s glam. By the time morning came, Ianto had a crick in his neck and a stiff back. Sleeping with Jack would most likely have been more comfortable, but Ianto wouldn't swap his night alone with the quiet song of a sleeping Torchwood for even a perfect cup of coffee.

Maybe for a perfect cup of coffee.

Jack was given a perfect cup of coffee that morning, strong and black in a heavy, bold mug with the blue and white stripes that privately made Ianto think of the passants on Jack's greatcoat. They didn't talk, didn't ask silly questions like 'how'd you sleep?' since Jack already knew and Ianto wouldn't answer him with anything more than a non-committal 'fine' anyway. And Ianto didn't ask if Jack had slept at all, since he already knew and Jack wouldn't answer with anything more than an 'oh, enough.' He did sit in the chair opposite Jack, however, his own mug (over-sized red ceramic bowl-mug, matched his shirt plus offered the perfect espresso-to-steamed milk ratio while permitting him to spray on an unhealthy amount of whipping cream) cradled in his hands while they silently enjoyed the other's company and prepared for the day.

It was good, their non-conversation, almost as good as what they had finally aired the night before. And if Ianto's fingers lingered just a moment too long on Jack's when he retrieved the empty blue and white striped mug, or if Jack's brushed his pinstriped thigh, neither commented but neither pulled away.

So much said without saying anything at all.

Rather summed up their relationship, Ianto mused as he brought food for all the beings kept within Torchwood's cells. Mostly Weevils, but there were a few others of various shapes, sizes, and nutrition sources. Ianto's favorite was the Pollywig, an alien race that looked like a hedgehog with flamingo biochemical properties in their spikes - turned an orangish-pink when they ate blue-green algae. Which Ianto fed it daily, just for the pleasure of watching it preen. Behind closed cage doors, of course; it turned into a vicious little devil with jaws like a micro-great white shark that could chew through flesh and bone in the presence of female pheromones (which had perturbed Gwen to no end).

The smile was still on his face as he approached the second-to-last cell, a smile that made his surprised frown even more noticeable as the muscles shifted, contracting and relaxing with such clarity Ianto could identify what pulled where and when. "Owen?"

Ianto looked to his left and right down the corridor, waiting for Jack to jump out of the shadows, laughing at some attempt at a joke that Ianto didn't quite get. He wouldn't put it past the man to lock up Owen just to get a reaction, and after the previous day's meeting, Ianto was half-tempted to leave the bastard in the cell. Served him right for being an arsehole. In fact, just seeing Owen again reminded him of the stress and tension that had knotted every muscle and tested every reserve Ianto had possessed. It all came flooding back until it became a dislike so deep it bordered on loathing for destroying his mood that morning.

And Owen just stood there with his arms crossed impatiently, tapping his foot like Ianto had deliberately delayed coming just to irritate him further. "I should leave you in there," Ianto grumbled, hitting the release for the door lock. As he did, Ianto remembered pieces of what Tosh had said, her theory that it could be Billis who was responsible for his visions, and maybe he had struck again, only this time his target was Owen, not Ianto. Which meant that Torchwood Three might be under attack if Owen had been incapacitated, if it wasn't some joke by Jack.

"How _did_ you end up in there?" Ianto asked as he turned, about to pick up the containers of food; he'd feed the last Weevils and then, if the Hub was under attack by Billis, he and Owen could sketch out a plan. Given the chaos that typically befell Torchwood, no sense in letting them go hungry while the team dealt with whatever fate had planned.

Whatever answer Ianto expected, he hadn't planned on the shove from behind nor the growl, the two catching him completely off-guard as he barely caught himself from crashing headfirst into the stone wall. "The fuck?" He spun about, confusion dismissing logic forthright. "Owen? What the hell?"

Owen lunged at him again and Ianto had just enough time to put his hands up in defense, catching Owen's wrists and using his momentum to shove him to the side. Ianto patted his pockets, desperately searching for a weapon of any sort. His heel colliding with one of the containers of food gave him an idea despite his own mind reminding him unhelpfully that any physical harm and Owen would not heal from it. _Fuck healing_ , Ianto thought as he threw the first container, which appeared to do no harm as Owen just batted it away.

Which would have made sense if Owen wasn't as skinny as he. That container should have injured him, and Ianto should have spent the rest of his life bearing the curses of Owen with a splint forever on his arm. Unless it was supernatural in origin, maybe _Death_ was back and giving him strength, and if that was the case, Ianto had more to be concerned about than scuffing his shoes or Owen bitching about a broken bone.

In fact, if Ianto was truly honest with himself, he might say he was panicking. "Shit." He tapped his ear comm even as he bent to pick up the second container, lighter than the first but still heavy enough to possibly do some damage. "Jack?" What if Jack didn't even have his device with him? Ianto figuratively crossed every finger and toe for luck; his hands were otherwise occupied as Owen jumped for him again. This time Ianto maintained hold on the container, swinging it around to solidly crack against the man's shoulder, which threw him off target, but Ianto still received a painful swipe of fingernails across his chest. Definitely supernatural. "Jack! I need your help down here."

 _Death_ was resilient, Ianto had to give Owen credit for that. And persistent. Ianto would have laughed at the absurdity but Owen came after him again and Ianto forgot about shouting for help and instead tried to figure out how to either trap him in the cell again or escape out the heavy doors that might keep _Death_ within. But the door was at the other end of a very long passageway and Owen was damned fast.

And _strong_. The container was ripped from his hands before he could ready it to swing again, thrown far out of his reach and it was all Ianto could do not to watch it bounce and roll out of play. He couldn't take his eyes off Owen though, who snarled and hissed as he moved forward to pin Ianto against the wall. Ianto could see what was happening, he just couldn't think of a way to get out of it, not with Owen's increased speed and strength. He was just able to put up his hands against the man's throat to prevent his own throat from being gnawed on by Owen's teeth. It didn't stop Owen's attack, even with Ianto doing his best to cut off his breathing and blood supply to his brain. Then he realized the futility of that action; Owen didn't _breathe_. And as a hand flailed and collided with his shoulder Ianto realized just how truly fucked he really was.

Before he could work his foot up to try to at least deflect or push him away, Owen was suddenly jerked away, still snarling in the dark language no one could understand until they ran it through Mainframe. He wondered what was being said now as Owen was being forced back into the cell Ianto had freed him from. Thumping his head back against the wall as he tried to recapture a steady, calm breath and heartbeat, Ianto built a list of what needed to be done: notify Tosh to run the CCTV footage through Mainframe to determine what Owen had said, he still needed to feed the last Weevils, he'd have-

"Ianto! Are you okay?"

Focusing his attention on Jack, now standing in front of him and looking exceedingly concerned, Ianto nodded, grimacing as the action made him aware of the tears in his suit jacket and shirt. He'd have to have Jack go to his flat and pick up another; he wouldn't have enough to survive his week stuck at Torchwood Three otherwise. Nothing felt too painful; Owen's fingernails may have been sharp but they didn't appear to have cut too deep. At least he didn't think fingernails could really get deep enough as he panted for breath; Ianto supposed they might and it was purely adrenaline clouding his perception. But they had more important things to worry about at the moment.

He pushed himself off the wall - Jack kept close as he walked - and made his way towards the cell he had seen Jack manhandle Owen into. He looked in to see Owen again standing impatiently with his arms crossed and foot tapping. "I'm sorry I let him out," Ianto apologized as he rested a finger on the small door window, mindful enough of his finger so as not to put it completely in the cell with Owen. _Death_. Whatever-whomever was in there.

"Let who out?"

Ianto scowled as he turned, wondering if Jack had hit his head or perhaps died in between getting Owen into the cell. But Jack looked far too casual leaning against the wall of cell doors to be confused with a concussion. "Owen." Ianto pointed into the cell to clarify who he meant in case Jack believed he meant one of the dozens of others kept in various cells and cages on the level. Jack made a show of looking through the window before turning his attention to Ianto's tattered shirt and ruined suit coat. "I thought it was just a joke. I didn't realize you'd put him in there because he was a dang-ow. Dammit, Jack. That hurt."

He winced as Jack poked a scrape that stung far worse than it really should have. Ianto didn't give in to the impulse to slap his hands away, though, restraining himself long enough for the perusal of his person. Apparently satisfied, Jack tapped his ear comm. "Owen, I need you on Level 9, Cellblock C."

"Owen?" Ianto asked half aghast, half concerned as he forced Jack's shoulders around to face the cell door, "he's in there, Jack, he can't answer the comms. I don't know what kind of sick joke you're playing, but Owen's gone mad and attacked me and you could have fucking warned me before I came down here."

Jack didn't say anything, and to his annoyance and worry, didn't even blink, just pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and pressed it against the worst of the scratches. That unnerved Ianto far more than if Jack had started growling and attacked him outright as Owen had. It didn't make any sense, and Ianto was ready to ask what was going on when a voice from the end of the hall interrupted him.

"Yeah, Jack? What do you-"

Ianto stared, he couldn't help himself. He felt any fight and any anger directed at Jack evaporate as quickly as the feeling in his fingers and toes and really, all his limbs together. He looked through the window, just to make sure Owen was still within the cell. He was, back against the cell glass with his elbows on his knees as he squatted and snarled at Ianto.

He was there.

But Owen was also outside the cells wearing his lab coat, rushing towards them in such a mimicry of earlier events that Ianto flinched. He hadn't meant to but minus the hissing and the growling it was _Owen_ both inside and out. Owen must have seen as Jack most certainly felt Ianto's instinctual response; Jack's arm tightened reassuringly around his waist (when had that gotten there? He didn't remember Jack moving) and Owen slowed his pace, holding up his hands as one would ease the fears of a cornered cat.

This wasn't possible. It wasn't fucking _possible_.

"Let's get him up to medical."

Jack and Owen were talking over his head - well, not really over but _through_ his head as Ianto felt himself being propelled forward towards the open door wedged between the two men. He couldn't resist a look back, managing to successfully trip over his own two feet as he misjudged his steps; his feet really weren't listening. Nothing was. The cell door was closed, it was locked, and fuck, what had he let out? A Weevil, a bloody Weevil was in that cell, he _knew_ a Weevil was in that cell. So why had he thought it had been Owen?

He'd let a bloody Weevil out.

Was this even Owen beside him? Or Jack?

He couldn't answer, couldn't even decide what was truly real or not. Owen had looked real, looked so very real Ianto had let him out of the cell he was locked in. And now there were two of them, one in the cell, one out and helping him up on to the autopsy table while Jack carefully helped him out of his jacket. Stripping him down, layer by layer. Shirt next, far more care unbuttoning buttons than Jack usually showed when undressing him and Ianto would have teased if he'd not been so wary of Owen with his gauze and antiseptic. He'd seen those hands have far more damaging use and fuck if he hadn't attempted to choke the pale neck in attempt to get Owen off of him.

But Owen couldn't be choked. He should have known that wouldn't work.

Owen was _dead_.

As soon as the idea struck him, Ianto couldn't help it. It was all the inappropriateness of a funeral in an equally somber setting.

He laughed.

And not just a soft, quiet chuckle, barely the length of a breath before he regained control. He laughed with all the hilarity of the best comic's best joke, a chuckle developing into a full-bellied laugh and disturbingly enough he found he couldn't stop it, no matter how hard he tried and no matter how he knew it must look. But that made it all the more (not) funny and soon he was doubled over and shaking because his muscles ached but still he couldn't stop, no matter Jack's concerned voice or Owen asking if he needed to prepare a sedative.

Sedative. Silent sleep. Long sleep. Oh god, he most certainly must be going mad because the mere notion set him off again and while he was frantic to stop himself, if only to breathe, he simply _couldn't_.

"Oh fuck, I see dead people." The words were more gasped than spoken, Ianto couldn't quite get his voice to support the words he wanted. But the meaning was behind them as he laughed, though the laughter was morphing far more into sobs and no matter how hard he tried he couldn't get himself to stop. Control kept tumbling away from him faster than he could run, faster than he could chase despite the clutch he'd held before. He was grasping at the sides of a pit dug in sand, the walls caving as quickly as he tried to climb out, worsening with ever increasing frantic attempts.

God, he was drowning within his own mind.

He needed to slow down, he needed to breathe, he needed to collect himself. He needed all these things but he kept circling back to the same thought, the same phrase repeating itself over and over like a mantra borne in hell, taunting him from the edges of sanity. _I see dead people I see dead people I see dead people_.

He was going mad. Not going, Ianto corrected himself. He _was_ mad.

There was no other explanation. He was seeing dead people, setting loose Weevils, and nearly burning down his flat. There was no rationale, there was no logic, this was the definition of insanity. But would he still be questioning his sanity if he was insane? Introspection didn't fit with the diagnosis; the thought calmed him a bit and Ianto discovered he could finally breathe, albeit in hitched half-breaths that oddly seemed timed with the beat of his heart.

Oddly timed as well with the circles spinning round and round on his chest or the whispered words in his ear, all sounding as fuzzy as the world looked: a hazy prismed scape complete with a blurred dead man standing in front of him, arms crossed as he leaned against what might have been a cabinet or it might have been a mid-sized white Chatoacl, Ianto wasn't sure.

Focus. He needed to focus.

 _'I see dead people.'_

Ianto let himself drift instead, conversation happening around him while he felt (dead) Owen's hands clean up the scrapes he received from his encounter with the Weevil dressed as Owen. He knew he ought to be paying attention, they were talking about _him_ after all, but paying attention meant dealing and he most certainly did not want to deal with the notion that he was seeing dead people. As he let his head rest against the shoulder conveniently placed for his head resting, Ianto could almost pretend it was just a quiet night at home, telly on to some random nature program (violent crime dramas were too much after a long day of Torchwood, comedy fell flat, cartoons were too animated and reality shows apparently reminded Jack of times he'd rather forget). Ianto's favorite had been meerkats; the program had rather reminded him of the team's interaction. And if it wasn't for the harsh smell of antiseptic and the tug at his arm and upper torso (numb; must be a topical analgesic) Ianto could almost believe he was at his flat. Comforting. He'd probably be in his favorite pair of cranberry colored pajama bottoms as well.

It wasn't right. He'd seen too much death to see it when it wasn't even present.

"I don't bloody know. There's nothing anomalous in any of his labs." Owen's voice actually sounded worried. Ianto made a mental note to notate the event in his diary.

"What'd Martha say?"

"Just got in when you called. He honestly thought it was me in there?"

" _He's_ still here." Ianto opened an eye, then both as he resolved himself to the fact that he'd not have a quiet night at home for at least another six days, probably longer now. He didn't move away from Jack, however, just continued to relax as he held up his arm to inspect Owen's work. Less a blur of rainbow-rimmed white now, more defined, he caught sight of a similar white stretch of gauze on his chest. Paint him up, he'd make a good piñata. "Dunno that it's you now."

A dry chuckle rattled off his ear, falling into Ianto's sand pit to bury itself at his feet. If Ianto had the energy, he would have bent down to pick it up but instead, he just leaned back against the brick wall he felt at his back. "It's really Owen," Jack reassured, his hands joining Ianto's as it smoothed over the gauze on his arm.

"Don't know that it's you, either." He felt the other man tense behind him, though not with tension at being caught out, Ianto knew that as much as he knew his father hadn't been a threat. Quite possibly it was that Jack was being compared to Owen, and Ianto could appreciate that affront. "You've died. How do I know you're real?"

He didn't believe that, not really. But as soon as the words slipped past his lips, he had to admit to the fear. His earlier panic must have loosened his tongue, providing a slick conduit for the words typically kept trapped tight within his mind. As much as he was certain this reality was true, that the more-curious-than-annoyed Owen studying him with arms crossed and the reassuring Jack warming his back while idly tracing patterns into the gauze were who they appeared to be, Ianto had been just as certain that it was Owen in that cell, waiting to be released to play doctor to team Torchwood.

But he couldn't be mad, not if he was questioning what he perceived as real. Could he?

"I assure you, I am very real."

 _'But Jack might not be Jack,'_ Ianto's traitorous mind helpfully supplied, arguing in a somewhat sanguine manner that he worked for Torchwood. He could be trapped by an alien device, abducted by aliens in a facsimile of real life, in a coma thanks to the tenderizing of a cannibal's club. _Fuck._ Maybe that was it, he'd never woken up from brain trauma and the past year was just a dream.

Only Owen was _dead_. If it was a dream, it was an incredibly creative dream because there was no way he would rationally envision Owen as a zombie, Jack the immortal demon slayer, or Suzie returning from the dead. It might be something from the mind of Joss Whedon, but it was too rich, too detailed, too _absurd_ , even by Torchwood's standards.

"You're sure this isn't anything from the Archives?" Owen had moved from curious to accusing, though Ianto noted it wasn't directed at him. Jack, for not locking down a dangerous object? Or Jack for permitting Ianto to spend half his days buried deep within the Archives where artifacts of every shape, size and purpose as well as books regaling the strangest of tales were kept? Ianto was more than willing to allow Jack to remain the focus of Owen's questioning if the angles were to be accusatory.

"This effect with no blips on a scan? Not that I'm aware of, but that doesn't mean it's not down there."

Ianto heard the uncertainty in Jack's voice and read it for what it meant, as well as felt the man's persistence in remaining seated on the exam table, chest pressed firmly to Ianto's back. An uncharacteristic gesture at the best of times, innuendo and gratuitous (and poorly hid) groping not uncommon but the intimacy the act implied, in view of another, left Ianto more than a little unsettled. Jack had no clue, and he'd never seen this before in all his travels, except, most likely in the diagnosis Ianto feared. He wondered if there was even mental illness in the 51st century, if it'd changed and evolved over time or perhaps been eradicated altogether. What was it like, Ianto briefly wondered, to live in a world full of incurable diseases as an immortal when one's true reality existed millennia in the future, with cures and treatments accessible to all?

Depressing. Ianto was actually quite surprised Jack hadn't lost his mind with anger and frustration yet. Or made billions 'developing' the cure for the common cold.

Owen donned the glasses he rarely wore, or at least that Ianto rarely saw, and scratched more notes into Ianto's file with an exceedingly well-chewed pen. What those notes indicated Ianto couldn't say for certain but he was pretty sure they consisted of accounts of hallucinations, threat to himself, and a detailed list of his injuries. Maybe even some guesses as to the cause. Whatever he was thinking must have stumped him; he tapped his pen repeatedly on the clipboard before impatiently throwing the file to the counter top. "Well, if we weren't Torchwood, I'd have you on the first lift to Psych for a full eval cause this makes no bloody sense."

Any lingering sluggishness vanished like water in the desert, leaving his body so sapped of daze that awareness felt pin-point accurate. Not that he moved an inch, Ianto remained pressed against Jack's chest, but everything he was seemingly 'pinged' into full alert. Jack must have sensed it as well, the wall of chest at Ianto's back didn't shift so much as harden, tensing along every pitch and angle until even his arms felt like stone and Ianto was braced by a statue. Not to hold him in place - Ianto didn't think it was done to hinder - but more a ripple effect of Owen's words traveling from lips across the air, striking ear drums and shattering calm that evoked more anticipation of reaction than reaction itself.

Ianto didn't move, just blinked and remembered to breathe.

It was in jest. Ianto recognized the attempt at humor as easily as he could acknowledge Gwen's well-intentioned suggestion. But as much as it was a joke the fear remained of nightmares trapped in padded rooms and long white hallways, of speaking but no one understanding, of screams never vocalized and dead blue eyes staring out from a mirror.

He swore he saw Jack's face in that mirror, standing behind him now, blanketing his fear with a light so bright it nearly blinded.

A nice thought; Ianto nearly smiled at the sparked images of regurgitated nightmares sprung from Owen's flippant comment reforming and resettling into something different. Reassuring. But a smile would be inappropriate. Or maybe it wouldn't. Maybe it'd acknowledge Owen's joke.

Despite the conflict, Ianto allowed himself to smile. Small, nothing extravagant, but honest to himself and humoring Owen. "Lucky for me, then, that we're Torchwood." Ianto finally stood, pushing from the table with his good hand. He was careful, twisting his waist and shoulders slightly to test both movement and pain from the scratches - limited, but not completely restricted. He'd feel the pain later; he most likely had adrenaline to thank for that. There were scrubs stocked in one of the cabinets, white and uncomfortable, but they would have to make do until Ianto could change into something more comfortable. He was not walking around the Hub bare-chested. That was fine when it was just he and Jack in the late hours of the night, but not during work hours.

Slipping the temporary shirt over his head was a different matter entirely. He refused to ask for help from Jack (Owen wasn't even a remote consideration), but between the injuries to his upper arm and torso, navigation of the sleeves and neck hole was impossible. A blush didn't spread over his cheeks but a curse echoed loudly in his mind. Perhaps they'd leave him alone to dress. Unlikely, but Ianto declined to humiliate himself further by struggling into the garment.

He glanced up, white scrub top twisted in his hands to find Jack's eyes narrowed and locked on him, either studying or tracking him. He'd moved from the table at some point after Ianto had stood, choosing to stand instead with his arms crossed - almost defiant - and if Ianto permitted himself to think about what it might indicate, standing coincidentally in the middle of Ianto's path to the exit.

But that was ridiculous and purely coincidence.

What drew Ianto's attention the most was Owen, who'd forgotten about the clipboard and apparently Ianto as well. Jack was Owen's calculating focus, the expression highlighted even more by the glasses he still wore, making Ianto wonder briefly if Owen had ever abused the look back at Uni to appear the intellectual.

Ianto wouldn't put it past him.

The fact that Owen was intensely considering _something_ unnerved Ianto, especially when Jack's attention never left him. The triangle of scrutiny left him feeling like the ultimate loser in the contest.

With hope to escape and flee to whatever recesses of the Hub still open to him, Ianto inched backwards and towards the narrow space still unblocked by Jack. He'd duck down one of the nearby corridors and fight his way into the shirt without tearing open the scratches again. Fuck, he still had to feed the Weevil that looked like Owen, otherwise she'd be violent the next time Ianto went to feed her.

A sharp crack of fingers snapping stopped him in his tracks, as did Owen's voice. "Oi, just where do you think you're going?"

Frozen in place with his jaw open and ready for speech, Ianto realized he had no response prepared. Usually relatively quick, his mind sluggishly shrugged its proverbial shoulders in defeat, an image Ianto found both disturbing and alarming. Even his mind was turning its back on him, refusing to engage to preserve what little dignity he had left. He'd feel betrayed if he wasn't just as embarrassed by his own actions that morning. "I ... coffee. It's morning."

Owen turned to look at him, the disbelief so clear on his face Ianto couldn't have missed it had he been blind. "You just set a Weevil loose. What part of 'not right' escaped you?" Again, Ianto found he couldn't reply, denial short-circuiting and leaving him with the uncomfortable facts as Owen so bluntly stated. Jack was no help; he hadn't moved from his determinedly studious posture, and Ianto was quickly running out of options on how best to remove himself from the situation. With a sigh that dissolved the disbelief into resignation, Owen made a show of removing his glasses and folding them carefully, hiding them away in the pocket of his lab coat.

Ianto now didn't doubt for a minute Owen had used the glasses on the pull.

"What was it?" Owen's question made Ianto blink in confusion, uncertain what the doctor meant. But before he could ask, Owen directed his attention at Jack, leaving Ianto with the distinct awareness that Jack was being used to gauge the accuracy of Owen's thoughts. Ianto's stomach plunged to his toes before the words ever left Owen's lips. "Epilepsy? PTSD?" Owen tapped his chin as he continued watching Jack, Ianto's only recourse was to beg Jack to make Owen stop.

All Ianto managed was to twist the white-cotton shirt in his hands.

"Not PTSD, something possible to inherit since you wiped your family too. Bipolar disorder? Acute depression?" Owen paused and Ianto's insides knotted. He'd feel outrage as Owen continued to pry but he was too numb too feel anything more than the dull throb of the Weevil cuts, steadily beating in time with the roar in his ears that threatened to drown out Owen completely. "Schizophrenia? Something schizoid or schizotypal. Let me know when I'm right."

"Fuck you." Ianto didn't know who he was addressing - Jack, who except for the clenched jaw remained still, or Owen, for the list, the presumptions, and for ignoring Jack's orders to let it go the day before. Maybe it was to both that he spat out the curse, alone and betrayed and half-naked for their entertainment. Wasn't the most inventive of rejoinders, nor one invoking innocence of all accusations, but the language tasted good upon his tongue, even if it was at a fraction of strength and cracked by desperation.

Owen turned away from Jack to look at him directly; apparently all answers sought were found. Ianto would have glared in defiance and animosity but the disbelief was gone, as was any antagonism Ianto had come to expect, completely sapping Ianto of any protest as he tried to justify an almost-sympathetic Owen with the arsehole Ianto knew him to be. "Who was it?"

Ianto shook his head, backing up until he felt a cabinet behind him, which he leaned on gratefully. Not that he couldn't stand, but the firm structure behind him was a steadying force as everything else spun around him. "Irrelevant." Ianto spoke carefully, refusing his internal panic to show within his voice. A calm façade was impossible, but at least he could pretend that he possessed some measure of control. "This follows none of the patterns."

"Ianto-"

"No!" Ianto let his voice rise with his determined anger; he was not allowing Owen to even argue the point aloud. "I saw something which you couldn't see. How the hell did I manifest _that_?"

Silence.

Not that Ianto expected much by way of conversation following the question, but some indication that he had spoken at all would have been appreciated for all he bore the weight of two pairs of eyes and an unequally heavy quiet. Between the moment of vocalization and another's reply, Ianto lost himself in the sudden fear that perhaps he hadn't spoken at all. Or the words had come out wrong despite sounding correct to himself. He refused to accept that possibility. Still, the notion that he wasn't actually conscious and aware crept back in, his reality at some point diverging from the real. A perfect explanation for why he was seeing dead people.

There was a rational explanation for it. He knew there was. Owen's baseless diagnoses didn't resolve everything and Ianto found no shame in clinging to that fact.

"Tell me then," Owen's voice was far more soothing than Ianto would have preferred, sounding less like the abrasive zombie he was and more actually ... concerned. That frightened Ianto far more than it should have. It was simply unnatural. "You honestly thought it was me in that cell."

He nodded yes, glancing quick at Jack before resettling on Owen to see where he was going with the conversation.

"And when the next hallucination hits, can you tell me you'll know there's a difference between it and the object that evoked the vision?"

Ianto started to respond, then cut himself off, realizing immediately what Owen was leading to but feeling equally powerless to stop the inexorable march towards the final questions. He couldn't say what he wanted to; it'd all be lies. He'd been convinced it was Owen in the cell and now he wasn't positive of anything's perceived existence.

"Owen-"

Ignoring Jack, Owen followed up on Ianto's silence. "And when Myfanwy looks like Jack, will you greet him with a kiss? How about if you see a Cyberman in the Hub, only it's really Tosh?"

The blood drained from his face so fast Ianto was certain he might pass out. That could also be attributed to his injuries, however, not necessarily what Owen had just said, but that offered little comfort. He didn't fool himself - this made two times he'd endangered himself through what he'd seen. He knew what that implied, what that meant, but the idea that he might accidentally injure one of the team made his stomach turn.

Options existed, though, and he'd be damned if he inadvertently hurt someone. Hell, even the Weevil could have killed him and escaped into the Hub with the others unaware and unsuspecting of any danger. And he'd shot an alien who'd appeared to be his mother; what if it'd been an innocent civilian?

Torchwood was no place for hallucinations of any kind. Even if he lacked a weapon thanks to duty restrictions.

Ianto straightened his shoulders, employing what little control he had left. "I'll go home," he stated simply, inviting no debate. As he said his intentions, panic slithered its way to the front of his mind, a black writhing mass lashing out at every rational thought. Home. He wouldn't be involved in finding out what was wrong with him, he wouldn't be involved in the discussions or the research, he was handing over everything to Torchwood Three and trusting them with his life. Counting on them to continue searching, to exhaust every angle, to _care_.

He didn't do that. He relied on himself. The lines had relaxed a little since the Brecon Beacons and mostly because of Jack but he didn't _do_ that.

And if they thought him mad, if Owen pursued any of what he'd questioned, would they continue? Or would it be easier just to let him go and forget?

"You can't stay here," Owen agreed, nodding as if he understood exactly what Ianto was thinking Maybe he did, but Ianto hated giving him that much credit. "Ianto," Owen started, then stopped as though rethinking his words, but he continued despite the internal debate. "We should also consider a full evaluation."

Ianto recoiled as physically as if Owen had struck him. "Absolutely not. There's no cause to."

"And what if this is a combination? Something you touched flipped an internal switch and now it's both alien and natural. We can't help if you keep pretending it's not possible."

"No." Ianto was vehement with his denial, but he wondered how many more of these incidents could happen before he was forced to. But he'd be damned if he just accepted it now. "I'm going home."

"If you're going home, I'm going with you." Jack stepped forward, causing Ianto (and Owen as well) to snap attention on the man though their purposes may have differed.

Ianto spoke up before Owen. "You can't."

"You're not staying there alone."

He knew Jack meant to protect him, he really did. But sometimes, Ianto swore the man didn't _think_. "Then who the fuck is here finding out what's wrong with me?" Some of the panic swept into his voice, Ianto heard it just as he was sure both Jack and Owen heard it. But he had eyes only for Jack at the moment, watching as awareness dawned, but he chewed his lip almost as though he was consuming the response he truly wanted to give. "Lucky we're Torchwood," Ianto reminded, but didn't plead no matter how his voice edged on desperate.

"Stay here, then." He knew Jack didn't mean just the autopsy bay. "We'll take extra precautions for everyone's protection." And almost as an afterthought, and nearly as quiet, Jack added, "Don't go where I can't help you."

Finally, a choice instead of the orders Ianto had grown tired of, chaffing at the edges of their relationship with the demands and Jack's unquestionable authority. Their relationship, however it was defined.

"Oh my god, Ianto! What happened?"

Ianto couldn't stop his face from flaming what he was sure was a brilliant red at the sound of Tosh's voice. Vainly he adjusted his hold on the scrub shirt to cover his chest, hiding the gauze. He turned away from Jack to look up at Tosh, dreading explaining the latest to her and, even more, fearing anything Owen might say. The fear was almost definite in form, taking root in the pit of his stomach and stretching its hands up to his throat, choking off his answer.

"Tea-boy saw another dead person, set loose a Weevil by mistake." Owen made a show of snapping off his latex gloves, making a scene as he threw them in the biologicals bin and proceeded to plod around the autopsy theatre, picking up and resetting items. "What'd you need, love? Just about done with him, and then he's yours for all your caffeinated services."

"Just..." Tosh looked at Ianto again, her attention obviously torn between the patches of gauze hiding the injuries beneath and the distraction Owen was providing; Ianto could think of no purpose for his actions other than to diffuse the situation with levity as Jack would have done had he not been completely fixated on Ianto. A situation almost worse than the CCTV tracking of the day before, Ianto decided, offering Tosh what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "Actually, I was looking for Ianto. I've got a test I'd like to run. But it can wait...?"

"He's yours once I clear him. And dress him - and we thought Jack was worthless when Ianto wore denims."

Tosh glanced one more time from Owen to Ianto, Jack's back was to her so she couldn't read his expression. Perhaps she really did believe he was distracted by Ianto's bare chest. Maybe she wasn't fooled; Ianto didn't know what to think anymore or even what remained of his dignity. She smiled encouragingly and waved before turning away, her heels clicking her path across the Hub.

Turning back to Jack, Ianto found himself staring at the same fiercely determined man that he'd argued with the night before - arms crossed with barely contained emotion bubbling beneath the surface - only this time there was far less anger and more, well, Ianto would call it helplessness on any other, but that didn't read as the Jack he knew or understood.

An answer. He was waiting for an answer.

Ianto wasn't sure which required the most faith in Jack, removing himself from the investigation or Jack doing everything to keep Ianto from inadvertently hurting one of the team during a vision. Owen was clear with his preference, and with one option Ianto would be under even more scrutiny, the doctor adding tailored psych checklists to his records and chart-making, detailing everything into his permanent record. His response to Tosh led Ianto to believe he might at least keep his observations quiet; a small positive to come from the situation, although discussion of an evaluation was certain to come up again.

And then there was Jack.

Every option was a terrible choice, never leading to a satisfactory conclusion that maintained Ianto's sanity. Every aspect of the whole fucking mess continued to pile on exponentially until he felt leadened and anxious about the mere notion of spending an unspecified amount of time in the Hub.

Or confined to his home.

In the end, Ianto selected his choice for the most selfish of reasons because he truly didn't know how he'd cope if isolated.

And he'd been asked.

"I'll stay."

 _Jack_.


	6. Chapter 6

Ianto tugged on the short sleeve of the white cotton scrub, wishing it was long enough to cover the patches of gauze on his upper arm. He'd caved, eventually, and asked Jack to help him maneuver his way into the shirt, but only after waiting until Owen left the autopsy theatre, though Ianto knew he lingered just outside the doorway.

Jack hadn't said anything while he helped Ianto dress, just held the cloth in his steady hands, easing the proper holes over the proper appendage.

The tears in his skin had burned in protest anyway, mocking him, reminding Ianto that everything was far from normal. Jack was reminded as well, who caught Ianto's barely masked flinch and struggled equally as hard to contain his scowl. It looked almost guilty, though his hallucinations were hardly Jack's fault and none of the team thus far had been able to find a cause or solution.

There was an easy explanation for that, Ianto knew it and Jack knew it, despite the one anomaly that left Ianto clinging to alternatives. They were Torchwood. There had to be a Torchwood explanation.

Both to reassure himself and Jack, Ianto had stepped forward to brush his lips over Jack's. It was a kiss that pivoted quickly from confident platonic to desperate longing for the familiar and the forgotten, times before visions, times before pain, times when the greatest threat to their relationship since Jack's return was Torchwood, not Ianto himself.

It wasn't supposed to be like that.

He was limited in motion so only one hand had mapped Jack's jawline and throat while the other curled around his waist, pulling Jack invariably closer yet never quite close enough. If he was truly going mad, Ianto had wanted that kiss to last a lifetime within the trappings of his mind, control blanketing while he possessed what was his. Claiming his own had appeared to be on Jack's mind as well, as though by the force of his will (and tongue, Ianto noted as it demandingly entwined with his own) Jack could banish whatever was the source of Ianto's hallucinations.

Maybe he could; Ianto swore Jack had banished death once with just a kiss.

Ianto was desperate enough to believe it possible.

Jack's touch was just as needy, though Ianto could feel the slight corrections for his injuries. But his hands were just as urgent, one tangling in Ianto's hair as it twisted and scraped over his scalp, the other resting on Ianto's neck. His thumb traced patterns on the sensitive skin on Ianto's chin - patterns Ianto was certain were alien for the repeated curves and lines - but Ianto had known Jack's focus was elsewhere. The rest of his fingers curled around Ianto's neck and rested with gentle pressure over his carotid artery. Ianto had understood the action, had performed it on Jack a few times after he'd been killed on Weevil hunt or various other Torchwood activities.

Jack had never needed reassurance before that Ianto lived.

He had almost felt bad for causing Jack worry, then guilty for thinking that it was about time Jack had been so overt in his awareness that Ianto's life _was_ limited.

They had broken apart only when they had to, both unashamedly gasping for breath as Ianto rested his forehead on Jack's.

"No camp bed tonight."

Ianto had smiled as the words heated his skin, whispering promise in so few words. Promise and understanding, forgiveness and apology. He'd closed his eyes, just for a moment, enjoying the faint tickle of Jack's nose against his, lips just a breath away, then sighed as he straightened. He couldn't forget how normal it wasn't, and Ianto looked directly at Jack to make sure he was not misunderstood. "Make sure I don't hurt anyone."

He hadn't missed the pained expression that crossed fleetingly over Jack's face, but just as quickly it was filled with more fierce determination than Ianto could ever hope to hold. "We're going to find out what's wrong."

A shaky nod was all Ianto could manage in reply.

Jack had sent him on to find Tosh, saying he needed to talk with Owen about a few things. Ianto understood it as a discussion about him, and rather than hear debate of his sanity he'd taken the escape opportunity and fled past Owen. He'd be angry over the discussion but he couldn't blame them, and perhaps between the two they could figure out a way to at least make sure the others were safe.

Entering the main Hub, Ianto caught sight of Gwen and tugged at his sleeve again, curious how easily he could blend into the shadows and avoid her concern before he could change. Unlikely, as he was supposed to find Tosh for a test. But he tried as best he'd ever learned in his early days at Torchwood Three and even earlier when he'd been forced to 'acquire' goods by rather unsavory means. He'd been good, only caught the once, but that'd been just a minor charge.

He'd left it on his record when he'd had his friend wipe everything to remind him that he wasn't perfect.

"Oh, Ianto! What happened to you?"

Ianto blamed the glaring white cotton shirt, which most certainly did not pair with his trousers, rather than lack of skill when Gwen took notice. He'd not lost everything he'd learned, it was just hard to not draw attention to one's self when one was so contrarily dressed.

He smiled politely but didn't answer, he'd suffered enough embarrassment for the morning and Gwen could find out from one of the others later. Instead, he focused his attention on Tosh, who sat at her desk soldering a wire but caught his approach easily enough.

It was really quite difficult to blend in to the surroundings when one wore white. At least he still maintained silence with his movement. He'd be utterly disappointed with himself if he'd lost even that. "Tosh, you said you had a-"

He would have continued but his voice just ... stopped. Lost in his throat. Perhaps vanished, fled to hide in his toes for all he could find it again. Standing right next to Tosh's desk was George Evans, Engineering for Torchwood One.

Which was impossible, or rather, improbable, but given his penchant for seeing the dead of late, more reality than fantasy.

"Ianto?"

Tosh's voice was a pale echo in his mind as his ears rang with the rushing blood of a thousand elephants stampeding across the Serengeti. Panic so tangible it colored his vision, shattering lights into jagged starlight that bounced off every surface until images became over-processed and exceedingly sharp. Defined. Because it wasn't just George Evans. Next to her stood Ross Smyth and Brittany Ann Collins, all crowded on the level around Tosh's desk, crowded for space but looking amiable.

He'd eaten with Brittany once, in the cafeteria of Torchwood London. She was a nice woman, bit put off when he'd started dating Lisa.

She hadn't made the survivor list; neither had Ross.

But that wasn't the end; if only it were.

Ianto stepped aside as Calvin Marshall passed him by, watched as he passed right through Gwen and carried on to sit on the coffee table with Roger Mills. Ianto recognized him as the one who'd come dressed as an elf to the Torchwood One Christmas party. An elf in bells, green bodysuit, and an impressive codpiece.

Apparently he was a scientist from research.

"Are you okay, Ianto?"

He saw Gwen's lips move but he didn't hear. Couldn't hear. Couldn't speak either as he pointed to the crowd around Tosh's desk with a hand that shook far more than it ought.

This wasn't real. They didn't exist. Ianto knew that even as Tosh and Gwen looked in confusion (albeit not without wariness following the incident at the Information Centre) at the desk. He didn't need it verified by the two Torchwood operatives; what he was seeing didn't exist.

But it didn't make it any less real to him.

Especially when the screams began.

He felt as much as heard; piercing cries, multiplied upon hundreds until the sound bled together to become one unified force battering his equilibrium. Ianto staggered and clapped his hands over his ears, spinning to identify the source even though he recognized the sounds.

Torchwood One. They were the sounds of the death knell of Torchwood One. Fuck, he'd heard the sounds before.

With a gasp he couldn't quite smother and that may have escaped louder than he'd have preferred, his eyes fell upon the Rift Manipulator, or rather where he knew it was supposed to be. Supposed to be. Horrified, Ianto forgot about the screams for a moment, forgot about the others and stared at the tower, his hands slowly falling to his sides simply because he forgot to hold them up.

A column of people stretched floor to ceiling, piled one on top one another until in some places he only saw a flailing arm or a kicking leg. Hundreds upon hundreds, a writhing exhibition of compiled humanity he'd only seen in sculpture. "No," Ianto whispered, recognizing face after face in the tower of people.

 _Torchwood Tower._

Oh fuck it wasn't real. _It wasn't real,_ he kept reminding himself as he identified Thomas Griffiths from Security, face contorted in a scream.

He saw his mentor Edwards.

 _No_.

"No " Ianto cursed every god he knew as sound returned, shrieking echoes of time best left forgotten as Torchwood fell. The cries tore across his mind, vicious as eight hundred clawed Weevils, shredding without caution or concern every last credible defense until even his guilt for surviving was subject to the punishing replay.

So many screams. How the hell had he survived? And why did he have to face the ones who didn't again?

"Stop," Ianto begged, hands against his ears again, not sure who he was pleading with because no one had listened before.

"Stop what, love? What do you see?"

Gwen added a hand with her words, touching his arm but he pulled away reflexively, stumbling as he moved too far too quickly. He ran into someone else (Tosh, he realized, hearing her voice as she spoke with someone other than him. _Jack_ , Ianto hoped) and bounced off her as well, needing distance. Space.

He froze, however, when he nearly bumped into Lisa sitting on the edge of Gwen's desk.

And still the hundreds screamed.

"London." Ianto choked out, casting his eyes on the people-built Rift Manipulator again, then permitting himself to drift across the Hub where the dead stood at various points on various things, his mind refusing to accept Elizabeth Daniels flying over head as legitimate. "I see Torchwood One."

"Oh, god. Ianto, Jack's coming."

But what the hell was Jack going to do when Torchwood London was stacked in a tower and spread across the Hub, Ianto wanted to ask Tosh, but didn't. Kept quiet amidst the pleas for mercy and death, to be spared and for life, as they lay waste to his mind.

This was wrong. So very wrong.

"Ianto!"

The sound of Jack's voice cut through the cacophony of Torchwood One, forcing Ianto's attention from the tower made of man, though he did in as much relief as distraction. Not that he believed Jack could manage a miracle and make this _stop_ , but ... Ianto didn't know what he hoped for. Just his presence. Just ... anything.

Someone cared. That was more than a simple drifter could ever hope for.

Ianto's head snapped back in surprise, however, his feet backpedaling before he could tame his reaction. Despite throwing an arm before his eyes, brilliant white-gold light bend around the edges, blinding him as completely as stepping out of the cinema with his father on a sunny day. He didn't know the source; his mind raced through the possibilities of an alien stunner to an explosion, the sonics of which perhaps canceled by the screams of Torchwood London. But it was painfully bright, burning red even behind closed eyes which teared in response.

Flared so bright, Ianto felt his foot touch air and the other soon followed. Stunned awareness seemed to slow time, the horrible realization that he'd ungracefully tripped down the stairs near Gwen's desk lasting lifetimes within the span of a breath.

Lifetimes filled with brilliant light. White-gold etched on his retina, blasting images of the Hub filled with Torchwood One into nothing but overexposed film.

White light, flaring as he felt himself hit the ground, his head crashing into the floor with equal force.

White-gold, flaring into black.

***

Ianto woke slowly, not with the instant coming-to-awareness that he typically associated with waking in the morning but rather a disoriented fuzz that clung to every thought that drifted across his mind. Thoughts were few, however, as the steel lance driving through his head, right over his left eye, was enough to halt any thoughts from forming beyond the desperate wish to sink back into the dark nothing he'd been in before.

He put a hand to his temple, an equally slow act once he recognized the conscious thought to move it, temporarily relieved when he felt no object piercing his skull but he'd almost rather that than the incredible pain with no explanation.

Migraine. He had a migraine.

Explanation.

Resolution?

Growing nauseous at simply the notion of moving, much less the actual act to walk, no, _crawl_ to his medicine cabinet for no fewer than a dozen paracetemols, Ianto let his hand fall (flop) back to his bed, a frustrated groan escaping his lips before he could stop himself. He positively ached, his head and chest feeling like they'd been beaten with a cricket bat and his mouth arid as the Sahara.

If this was a hangover, Ianto wondered what the hell he'd drunk.

"Oh, you're awake! I'll fetch the doctor."

Doctor? Ianto opened one bleary eye, so detached from active logical processes he couldn't quite figure out why a doctor had been notified for a migraine. But at least the chances of getting drugs for it drastically increased with the addition of a doctor. And perhaps then he could _think_. A giant chasm existed within his mind, or maybe more a wall, blocking the ability to gather input by allowing only a small percentage of comprehension to actually fall through. He could feel it, sharp and jagged, like a rocky crag of Great Wall size.

A doctor?

His eye didn't stay open long, snapping shut the moment light hit it and shot straight through his head, the pillow, and probably buried itself into the floor.

He had seen unfamiliar walls, blurred though they might have been. Blurred walls and unfamiliar window dressings; neither the Hub nor his flat, then.

Blurred walls. Doctor.

Disinfected air.

Cardiff General.

The victory of thought exhausted Ianto; he nearly successfully retreated back into nothing when he heard a door open, coinciding with the soothing tones of a voice he didn't recognize.

"Still with us, Mr. Jones?"

Ianto considered feigning sleep and ignoring the question, but then he'd merely be delaying the inevitable.

"You took quite the nasty fall. How about opening your eyes for me? I've drawn the blinds, it should be a bit easier on you."

Not that Ianto didn't trust the man, but he didn't trust the man. Owen. Where was Owen and why wasn't he Ianto's doctor?

One eye first. He could manage that.

Jack. Where was Jack?

Through one eye Ianto could see the doctor hadn't been lying; the light in the room was significantly less bright. Reluctantly he opened the other, taking in the standard hospital room, sparsely decorated with a fake Monet on the wall and an uncomfortable plastic-covered chair by the bedside. His eyes finally fell on the doctor, his soothing voice deceptive for his outwardly youthful appearance. Could he even be old enough to practice medicine, let alone prescribe?

The man laughed as he stuffed his hands in the pockets of his lab coat, a pleasant laugh, not harsh or grating, perfectly suited for a hospital setting. Or tailored, but Ianto was fairly certain it had sounded natural. "You don't know how many times I've seen that expression. My name's Naveen Ramamurthy and I assure you, I'm older than I appear."

Ianto sincerely hoped that was true.

The door opened again, distracting Ianto from asking for Dr. Ramamurthy's C.V. Tosh ran in, as did Gwen, piling into the room and nearly crashing into the bed in their haste.

"Ianto!' Gwen kissed his cheek; Tosh did the same. He suddenly feared any prognosis. It was most certainly terminal. "Jack and Owen are on their way, they were hunting-"

"Information," Tosh interrupted, her eyes darting to Dr. Ramamurthy before she smiled at Ianto, patting his hand. Terminal, and dreadfully painful. Radiation sickness, maybe. "How are you feeling? Can we get you anything?"

Dr. Ramamurthy cleared his throat, interrupting before Ianto thought of a response that didn't include 'I don't know.' "I hate to interrupt, but I was about to involve Mr. Jones in a few tests to make sure everything is okay. If you wouldn't mind waiting outside, I'll let you know when we're done."

Tests. Questions.

Where was Jack?

Ianto heard the previously ignored but steady beep change its tempo, obnoxious as it sped up. He wasn't making up the sound; Tosh and Gwen both looked, and he heard Doctor Ramamurthy move. Looking around, at first Ianto couldn't identify its source. Then he noticed the heavy weight on his finger, monitoring his pulse. Fuck, that was his heart rate.

What the hell was he doing in hospital?

"Easy, Mr. Jones. Just a few questions, completely harmless."

Completely harmless, but Ianto remembered. Another hole in the wall, a bridge across the chasm, memory connecting with rationale in one swift rush of awareness and horror.

Torchwood One. He'd seen the dead of Torchwood One.

He wasn't panicking, he honestly wasn't, but the frantic pace of the heart monitor shrilly cried a different story. Everyone. Every single one, seven-hundred and ninety-six faces, spilling about the Hub and towering tall above him.

And screams. The fucking screams.

Too much death.

Fuck, the beeping. It almost drowned out the screams.

Ianto tore off the finger pulse monitor despite the hands that tried to stop him. He was acting irrationally, he knew he was, but his mind was a spiked ball of pain bouncing around within his skull and he couldn't get the images out of his head. Shooting his mother. His father handing him the post. Owen attacking him. Torchwood London, a moving, shuddering mass of people towered high.

He was sane. He knew he was sane. But the visions were driving him mad.

"Oi, what's going on here?"

Instantly, Ianto's frantic struggles ceased at the sound of Owen's voice - not that he was any less panicked, but it was Owen, not some random doctor assigned his care. He couldn't even bring himself to be embarrassed by taking comfort in Owen's presence.

That didn't mean he couldn't be terrified by it.

The air simply left his lungs as Owen hurried towards his bed, in a decidedly un-Owen body. _Not real. This isn't real._ She had Owen's voice, she sounded like Owen.

Only it wasn't.

Was it?

"Don't touch me," Ianto more growled than spoke, the warning feeling so awkward on his lips, half of him not comprehending why he was speaking and the other half begging to say more. "They died because of you!"

Yvonne Hartman stopped just a foot from the bed; Ianto drew his feet up just so he wouldn't be any closer than he had to.

 _Not real. This wasn't real._

His head throbbed when he raised his voice, vehemently protesting the vocalization, but that wasn't important for the moment. Ianto simply raised his hand and pressed the heel of his palm against the point that seemed to be the point of origin of the pain - not that it helped, as he'd used the wrong hand and now his arm and chest burned in protest of the movement.

He didn't particularly care. "Seven hundred and ninety-six people are dead." Somehow, somewhere he heard a muffled 'Torchwood One' and an 'oh god.' Ianto maintained his attention on Yvonne, however, wary as hell she wouldn't pull a gun and shoot him on the spot and all the time fully aware that it wasn't real. But he couldn't stop himself, the outrage and hate cultivated over the years like a dam bursting forth in anger and an honest desire for justice. " _Lisa's_ dead. Because of you."

The room was still after Ianto spoke, Yvonne didn't move, which Ianto supposed was a good thing considering the treasonous act he was committing by accusing her of such crimes. "For Queen and Country," Ianto scoffed at the quote, having heard it from her lips and echoed by the division leaders at every bloody meeting until it meant nothing more than personal ambition dressed in honor for country. Jack had seen it; he'd understood the downfall of Yvonne Hartman and took his wrath out on even the meager servants to the cause. Jack would understand now; she ought to be arrested and tried. "Where's Jack?"

"He's right there, love." Gwen wept while she pointed, an action Ianto couldn't understand. She hadn't been at Torchwood One - there was no reason she would hold any form of resentment or anguish over the former leader.

Former.

 _This isn't real. It's not real._

Ianto followed the path of her arm, a frown curving his lips as she pointed at what he'd initially believed a light source - just a lamp, or a bare bulb - bloomed forth into a shock of white-gold.

White-gold.

He remembered that, from the Hub. Blinding then as it was now and he hadn't had a migraine before. It as almost too much, too intense to look at for long and he averted his eyes, shielding them with his hand. But it did little good because now that he was aware, the light followed everywhere he looked, no matter how he turned his head away.

That wasn't Jack. There was no way it could be Jack. Jack wasn't _there_.

And no one else saw it. Everyone else saw Jack.

Ianto would have screamed at them all if he hadn't been so terrified.

"This is wrong. This is-" Ianto completely lost what ability he had to speak for a moment when he turned back to Yvonne to demand she leave his room. Yvonne. It had been Yvonne, standing right there at the foot of his bed sounding like Owen.

Yvonne he'd accused of Torchwood One's downfall.

And now Torchwood One's downfall stood at the foot of his bed.

"No!" Ianto shouted as much as whispered, fear making even his jaw tremble. Movement out of the corner of his eye distracted him - Tosh and Gwen, both were crying and holding the other as they ought. The Cyberman Lisa had become hadn't been nearly as frightening as the real damned thing. "Get out of here!"

They didn't move.

They didn't _move_.

The hurt that they wouldn't listen to him stung deep, digging into that quiet quest for acceptance with the team. He thought he'd earned their respect and trust after Lisa, that he'd found a 'family' within Torchwood Three.

Maybe he'd been wrong.

He leaped from the bed, stumbling when the action proved far too much activity on legs that just wouldn't function quite right. The golden light blocked the only exit and no matter how much Ianto believed it light, it had an air of sentience with it. The only thing he was entirely sure of was that it was _wrong_ , but in a way he couldn't quite figure out.

His only option was to back against the wall, trapped as the Cyberman advanced on him, leaving the others alone. Doctor Ramamurthy was on the comms, good, they'd get security in the room, perhaps there was something-

No.

 _No._

It wasn't real. What had Owen asked? If Ianto saw a Cyberman in the Hub, what would he do, and what if it was actually Tosh?

No, no _no._. "This isn't real." Ianto knew it wasn't and kept repeating it over and over in his mind, deliberately not looking at the looming metal mass that had killed nearly all his coworkers as he slid to the floor. "No." It was dead. The Cybermen had all just ... vanished. They were destroyed and _dead_. Ianto pressed his hands to his forehead again, pressing against both temples as his headache returned in force, drawing a muffled cry despite his best intentions to keep it silent. "No, no, no."

An argument carried on above him, mercifully brief, something about concussions and sedatives, but he couldn't hear the details over the denials ringing in his ears.

The pinch on his arm indicated which side had won.

And oddly enough, the voice had sounded a lot like Owen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As maybe you can tell from reading, seeing [Vigeland's Monolith Pic 1](http://www.worldisround.com/articles/133491/photo17.html) and [Pic 2 for perspective](http://www.worldisround.com/articles/133491/photo24.html) as a child really screwed me up ;) Check out the other pictures from Oslo! Norway is such a gorgeous country.


	7. Chapter 7

When Ianto next woke, he saw white walls.

***

He awoke, heavy and lethargic, no thoughts but perceptions. Sluggish. Mud oozing over the lip of a plate, not a tidal wave but a steady creep until a drop formed, weighty enough to pull away from the mass to splatter a dark stain upon empty white.

White walls.

Ianto closed his eyes and crawled back into darkness.

***

Sunlight. Magnificently bright, but not warm.

Ianto would have reached a hand to touch the pane of glass separating him from the light, but the instruction never made it to his fingertips.

It was lost somewhere in between.

In between, buried in darkness. It was dark beyond the glass, but the sun still shone a brilliant beacon from the ground.

***

He was back in his chair. _His_ chair.

No memory of getting there, but that didn't really matter.

But it could matter.

Ianto couldn't help but feel it _should_ matter.

"-mistake in your records. Jack and Owen had a terrible row, but Owen finally won since you couldn't go back-"

Coffee. But he saw nothing through the glass. Just endless green and grey.

***

 _Time to get up!_

 _Let's get you dressed._

 _Why don't you eat a bit of your porridge?_

 _Now, swallow these._

 _Shall we walk? It's a beautiful day._

 _Would you like to sit in your chair? You like that, don't you?_

Ianto's body did as it was told.

He'd tell it to do otherwise, but it never listened.

***

Coffee.

"-again. It's probably a good thing Owen is as he is, I think Jack might have killed him by now. Don't suppose it's good to joke about the dead. Owen says they're weaning you off the injections they gave you at Cardiff General-"

The sunlight was back, even though it rained. Drops hit the pane of glass thudsplatter but the white-light glowed in golden luminescence against the grey.

"-down to anything alien, tech or species. That's why you're here. Jack and Owen can't treat you if you react like that to them and the Hub. But we're still looking-"

***

He slept, sometimes.

Other times, Ianto lay with his eyes closed, staring at the back of his eyelids listening to the sounds around him.

Sometimes he heard screaming. Sometimes crying.

And sometimes, just sometimes, he saw light turn his eyelids red.

***

"-do you mind if I comb your hair? It's really ... we want you looking cute for the staff, don't we? Here, I've got a comb in my bag-"

Ianto finally saw the coffee cup in the window pane.

Reflection.

If his hand could hear him, he could touch it.

But everything was off, his mind split in two and shoved apart so only a fraction still touched. He wondered what would happen if he pushed, just a little bit, and sent the one half tumbling to the floor.

"-Gwen sends her love. She's taken over your duties for now, even mucking the cells, I think she feels a bit guilty, she just couldn't ... she tried. But you've got me. There, next time I'll bring some gel and we'll have you looking so cute Jack will have to fight off all the people vying for your attention."

There was a smudge on his window pane. It distorted his view, and probably the view in. He wondered what he looked like when viewed through the glass, although it probably was no different than his view out.

Distanced, a panel of glass separating worlds, with a smudge making both temporarily imperfect when viewed from without.

"-but Owen argued that the meds calmed you. And they did, if you count unconscious 'calming.' I hope you're not in pain, back at the hospital I think you were. I can't believe I agreed with Jack, you don't think Owen will take it personally? It shouldn't matter, but it does, you know? I mean, he's dead and there's no chance there but you can't just turn it off. I have the worst luck in love, don't I? Just once I'd like ... what you and Jack have-"

Pressure on his skin, a touch on his cheek.

Ianto felt it smudge the window pane.

"-I wish I still had Mary's necklace, find out what's going on in that head of yours. You probably know the answer, we just don't know how to ask you for it yet. We're still looking, Jack wouldn't let us stop even if we wanted to-"

***

 _Look at you! Did you get all dolled up just for me? Let's get washed up for the evening meal._

 _All right, handsome. Can you swallow your pills for me?_

 _There we go. Settled in? Pleasant dreams, Mr. Jones._

He couldn't remember a time when his dreams had been pleasant. That was one command his body never followed.

Ianto stared at his eyelids again, picturing a world of only black. But he saw only red behind light-burned lids.

"Ianto."

Never did the dark speak, nor the light touch. But both did as Ianto felt depressions on his skin, faint, more a puff of wind blowing dust than a gusty rattle of a wooden house on a hill in the Highlands. It rolled down his cheek to his neck, stopping there.

Gentle. A rolling wave lapping the shore.

Touch increased, deepened, shattered light down the length of his body until Ianto was certain even his toes gleamed with the power of it.

"Ianto...Tosh had an idea. Normally, I'd have explored this under far different circumstances, but I've got to try. Forgive me not receiving your consent."

Pressure on his temples, twin points of focus that distracted Ianto from the examination of the sense of light bearing weight against the body which ignored him at every moment. Burnished black and occasional starbursts interweaving a dance across the thin skin of shading his eyes, ordered to sleep and so his body attempted but somehow ignored his mind.

His mind, cleaved in two and pushed apart, dysfunctioning halves making one whole.

"I'm sorry. I thought it would work."

Raindrops falling thudsplatter on window pane; Ianto felt light wrap around him and quake as sunlight was not meant to do. Shake and splinter, a million shards upon his skin brilliant but drenched in storm, sunlight and rain, the two did not coincide.

"I'm sorry, Ianto, I'm so sorry."

Ianto watched the light weep beneath the shades of black.

***

 _Good morning, love. Time to get up!_

 _Let's get you dressed._

 _Why don't you eat a bit of your porridge?_

 _Now, swallow these._

And for the first time, Ianto's hand listened to Ianto.

He dutifully swallowed saliva and none were the wiser.

***

Time passed and Ianto noticed.

Noticed locks and keys, doors and windows, cameras and staff. Shift changes, cleaning staff, meal times and patients.

Not that it appeared he noticed, quiet and unresponsive, only following orders.

Except the one command he didn't wish to follow.

Pills palmed, disposed when no one watched.

No one watched because no one believed him worth watching, as easy as it'd been in his childhood and with Lisa. Overlooked, taken for granted, assumed.

 _He_ watched because he didn't belong.

***

"-so Gwen sends her love and apologies, but Jack's promised to put a new coffee grinder in the budget. Oh, and Gwen says Rhys wants to discuss babies. Can you imagine it? Babies at Torchwood, like we need other distractions crawling underfoot, sticking their fingers in sockets and chewing on wires. There. Your hair's getting longer, I'd offer to cut it but I'm much better with a soldering iron than I am with scissors. Besides, I think Jack would like it-"

Green and grey were the world beyond the glass, a coffee cup reflected within just an inch away from his hand. Ianto still wasn't sure if the cup actually existed; he never looked. But he smelled, and it arrived every morning with Tosh, and disappeared when she left.

"-your evaluation period's almost up, did you know? Owen brought it up to Jack again but he'd have nothing of it. Jack's ... being Jack, you know how he is. He's put himself down as your next of kin, so there won't be another mix-up like before. Sort of sweet, really-"

Sunlight broke through the greys and greens, a brilliant spotlight from the grassy park. That was life, out beyond the glass pane.

He wasn't mad.

Ianto knew he wasn't, though he wasn't certain how he knew.

It grew clearer every day.

"-Owen hates this, too. He can't figure it out. He's even worked with Martha repeatedly but both are clueless, which pleases Owen a bit, I think, that Martha doesn't have any answers either. She's apparently put in a call with an expert she knows, but hasn't heard a response yet. Everyone wants you back, funny how we forget sometimes, take things for granted. We won't stop looking, you may just have to stay here a while longer. I hope you'll forgive us all for keeping you here once you've come back to us-"

***

Keys misplaced.

Uniform disappeared from laundry services.

A mobile lost.

Searches spun around him, while Ianto stared out the window.

***

The thing about maintaining the pretense of previous catatonics was that when one was actually in pain, one couldn't ask for paracetemol.

***

"-tense, to say the least. Jack actually yelled at Gwen today. She didn't mean anything by it, she never does, just doesn't think before she talks. Usually we would have laughed it off, just another Gwenism - do you remember when Jack was missing, and the three of us would go to the pub when Gwen went home to Rhys? I think that's the only thing that kept us from mutinying, though none of us would have faired much better at managing Torchwood Three. I never thanked you for suggesting the trips to the pub, did I? Well, Owen and I both appreciated it. I sort of wished I would have asked how you buried the expenses in Torchwood's budget, be nice to know-"

Typically, Ianto's mouth began salivating at the smell of the coffee Tosh brought every day. Pavlovian. Two cups, one she placed near his hand on the windowsill, the other she drank. She always picked his up when she left; he'd hear the heavy thump as the full cup hit the bottom of the waste bin.

Sometimes he heard her cry.

This time, however, his head hurt so much the smell was nauseating.

Migraine. Not unexpected given his earlier concussion, Ianto theorized, though he'd hoped given the time frame those would have passed.

"-she made the mistake of calling an alien 'schizo' within earshot of Jack. The alien's biology was fascinating - seemed it was a community of aliens living together as one unit, and they all had different specializations. One of them kept hitting on Owen when it was in control of its speaking function, I wish I had a camera to capture the look on his face - the alien had an external vagina, did I mention that? He couldn't quit staring. Made for an interesting conversation with each alien coming forward to voice its opinion. Anyways, Jack was positively livid; I don't think she'll ever mix up multiple personalities and schizophrenia again-"

Ribbons, his brain was being sliced in ribbons by a medieval torture device. He'd say something about it, but even thinking about admitting his duplicity physically _hurt_.

"-not that I think you're schizophrenic, though that's what the doctors are talking about. Easiest diagnosis, given the symptoms, but it just doesn't fit. Plus, we're Torchwood. Things like this don't just ... well, we're still looking. I've got to get back, I'm running more tests on that suit. Gwen's been trying to find the woman you thought might have been the person behind your father's visage, but we're having a bit of difficulty finding anyone. She's the only one who doesn't fit in all this. But we'll figure it out, that's what we do-"

***

 _Let's get washed up for the evening meal._

 _Look at that, did someone mark your hand with a pen? Don't worry, love, we'll get that cleaned for you._

 _Oh, my. They used something permanent, didn't they? That's not very nice of them. Well, so long as it's not bothering you, we'll just let that wear off, yeah?_

Through pain-blurred eyes, Ianto stared at the marks on his hand, crawling back towards his wrist in perfectly drawn fashion. Not drawn. No one had drawn on him, that he knew of and he most certainly hadn't blacked out, not now with the drugs out of his system.

The marks had just ... appeared.

It was hard to think around the migraine stabbing a hole above his left eye. He contemplated crying out in pain but he'd seen what had happened with other patients. Not that the staff were cruel by any means. But making a scene was never a good act to engage in at a psychiatric hospital, not if one still wished to leave.

Leave by any means necessary.

He wasn't even shocked by the appearance of the marks, black as the darkest night against his pale skin. They weren't random, as he looked they almost seemed to ... make sense, like he was on the brink, so close to understanding all of it he only needed to stare a bit longer.

Curves and curls, lines and dots.

Intricate.

Or perhaps, it was with the passing of time that the complexity developed like a complicated mehndi-meet-fractal, lines pulling inwards, replicating and multiplying, curling around his wrist and stretching up towards his fingers.

Ianto knew he should be panicking.

But as collapsing on the floor in the middle of the room to beg for unconsciousness was unacceptable, the force of his will was centered on that, not the strange design and engaging in panic.

It was almost beautiful, really.

He shouldn't find it so peaceful to watch.

Slowly the warning perforated the haze of focus, the nagging, quiet reminders of the past few months. Hallucinations - anything alien. Now, this marking.

He wasn't going mad. He knew he wasn't going mad.

Something alien, something not right. But something not wrong.

Ianto couldn't explain it, no matter how he stared at his hand.

It wasn't _wrong_ , even if it wasn't right.

 _He had to get out of there._

The thought struck him with the force of a weighted blow nearly tumbling him over in his chair, sitting at the window staring out beyond the glass. His thoughts were no longer a passing plan for escape from a hell that wasn't his, but a necessary flight.

Necessary as the pressure increased in his head, pushing him near-retching but Ianto maintained his calm, unobtrusively glancing around him.

Not a staff member in sight. He wasn't worth watching, after all.

Ianto had everything planned, planned from the hidden uniform, the keys and the mobile. No shoes, those had been far too difficult to acquire, but the security cameras overall were of a simplistic system, easy to step into dead spots and disappear.

Disappear into the darkening evening after retrieving all the hidden items, disappear with a key for every lock, disappear during shift change, right before it was time to settle everyone in for the night. Commotion, there was always commotion from the patient down the hall, and that night was no different, the shrieks bringing all the aides to tend the man.

The patient belonged.

Ianto didn't.

But something wasn't _right_.

He ran, barely remaining upright as he fled along the trees, sneaking past open windows and doors, grass slick under his bare feet. The open green space was far more difficult but Ianto had the escaped mapped after all the days sitting and staring out the window, counting cameras and calculating range.

He was outside.

 _Outside_.

Despite the need to run, to get away before they noticed he was missing, Ianto stopped, taking a deep breath of fresh air, appreciating the moment.

He wasn't mad. He knew he wasn't mad.

Ianto couldn't help himself. After a month of doing as ordered and no free reaction of his own, of a drugged mind and absolute dependence on others, Ianto smiled.

The moment was brief as the feeling of his mind wrenching in two nearly dropped him to his knees, which most certainly would have spoiled his carefully laid plans for escape. He pressed the heels of his palms into his temples, willing the migraine away with measured breaths and steady pressure.

Didn't work well, _didn't work at all_ , Ianto amended. With a deep, shaky inhale and a slow exhale, Ianto moved on. He had to move, he had to get beyond the grounds and he had his path.

It was easier than he'd thought it'd be.

But then, he had sneaked Lisa into the Hub under Jack's watchful eye.

 _Jack._

Even with his ears ringing, distracting Ianto as he made his way to the road, he considered his options, options rapidly dwindling as he felt his ability to think logically fading as quickly as his ability to stand.

The mobile.

Closing his eyes as he leaned against a tree, Ianto gave a small prayer to any god listening that there would be power, there'd be a signal, that the owner hadn't deactivated the number. Any number of things could cause this plan to fail ... but it worked. The mobile _worked_.

He shielded the mobile face, pausing as the light caught the marks on his hand, still visible in the faint light.

Something wasn't right. And for the first time that evening, he began to panic, a full-fledged fear chasing all the way down to his toes almost driving the ache from his head. Perhaps it was making him slightly irrational, though Ianto rather thought rationality had fled since the first vision, much less all that followed.

Ianto immediately canceled the number he'd begun dialing,

He couldn't go back to Providence Park. He'd have to deal with all that later, when his mind was willing to think, and most importantly, deal with the fact that it'd been encouraged or at least condoned by Torchwood.

And he couldn't go back to the Hub. Ianto believed Tosh in that much.

His flat was out - the others were most likely watching it if they were still looking for an answer. Jack would come, so would the rest of them and he'd end up back at the place he'd just left facing far more scrutiny and restriction.

Quickly, he punched in the number before another damning wave from his migraine could drown him completely.

"I'm calling in that favor."


	8. Chapter 8

Ianto purposefully allowed himself to wake slowly, the drift back to consciousness reluctant for all he could distinctly remember pain.

But there was no pain, not that Ianto could discern behind closed eyelids. The absence of the feeling that his mind was shredding itself into a million pieces was most welcome.

As was the complete lack of institutionalized disinfectant lingering in the air.

He vaguely remembered giving the details of his location, more unintelligible babble into the mobile than enunciating clearly the road he was on. Ianto knew he'd been found, had felt hands lift him, but much more than that was a fog. Actually, remembering much of anything after that was a complete void of memory. Not that Ianto cared; so long as he did not smell Providence Park he could be on the arse end of Betelgeuse for all he cared.

Well, he might care, eventually, but anything was better than Providence Park. Ianto couldn't help himself. Despite the contradictory feelings of weightlessness and heaviness in his body and the questions quickly forming in his mind, Ianto smiled. No constant feelings of oppression as cries rang out in the night, no shouts of anger or random nonsense.

Just a still, steady silence. And birds, he could hear the birds singing a morning greeting.

"Ianto Jones. Back with us now, are you, lad?"

He could smell the horrible, artificial scent of orange even from where he lay. Ianto wasn't quite sure why, but it made him grin all the more broadly as he listened to the sounds of clothing shift-scratch and the rustle of paper, paper refolding and resting finally with a soft brush against wood.

"Bit of wonder you turned out to be. Come on, then, quit smiling like a sleepy Cheshire and thank me properly for remembering you at all."

"You owed me." Ianto tried clearing his throat after his voice rasped out like a two-pack-a-day smoker but that did nothing more than exasperate the pained tickle scratching his esophagus. He must have shouted the previous night; he had no memory but he recognized the feeling of the morning after. Sandpaper dry, parched lips, general ache from clenching muscles to propel the voice. Fear, pain, anger, defiance; any or all of those in combination, he'd yelled them all the day of the Battle.

Not something he particularly wanted to remember now, not while lethargy numbed his senses but his mind was sharp as ever. He'd think himself into circles of the past he couldn't run from. Never healthy.

Healthy. He wasn't at Providence Park. Or at hospital. That was a start.

Slowly, Ianto opened his eyes, dreading what he'd see. Lester was alien as they come, and his most recent experiences with anything remotely alien had left him with tainted memories, if Tosh was to be believed. Tainted memories and a month he'd rather forget.

Glass of Tang, a folded newspaper, bright sunlight pouring through an open window.

And Lester  -

> _Species Profile  
>  Species: Altarian  
> Origin: Altar  
> Threat Priority Level: Low  
> \---***---  
> Individual Profile  
> Name: Rosly Reesly  
> Aliases: Rosso, Michael Rosly, Stan Reesly, Lester McDermott  
> Previous Violations: NONE  
> Active Warrants: NONE  
> Threat Priority Level: Low  
> Current Status: Earth, ERCY2008_

\- sitting in an old leather high-backed chair, looking just as Ianto remembered, if not a little more bald and a lot thicker about the middle. Life had treated Lester well, it would seem, since the days of London and Torchwood One's raid on his establishment. He'd never done poorly, but as Ianto let his gaze travel around the room, he noted a decadence to the decor that hadn't been present before.   It was an eclectic display of wealth; mismatched chairs, tables and lamps decorated the floor and an exceedingly gaudy chandelier dripping with crystals that Ianto wasn't quite sure were authentic dangled from the ceiling.

An ancient-looking tapestry hung on the opposite wall - wasn't until that moment Ianto realized he lay on his side, blankets the shade of ivy clutched to his chin - and if Ianto wasn't mistaken, it portrayed a battle fought by a dragon and a knight with an odd plastic spaceship figurine pinned to the corner.  

Lester always had an unusual sense of humor.

The Altarian still carried a tattered derby to cover his third eye at the back of his head, though Ianto was fairly certain the hat on the arm of the leather chair hadn't been in the collection when he'd worked for Lester. And for all Ianto could discern, he was curious to the extent of barely concealed zeal, but at least appeared to have a modicum of grip on his self-control. Unlike Jack who would have asked by now whatever question was on his mind.

 _Jack_.

Ianto wondered if it was possible to both miss and hate the man.

"Can't think of a better way to repay it, either. Don't you be thinking I can't appreciate the irony. Now, you idiot child, why didn't you ever tell me? We could have helped you sooner."

The levity lightening Ianto's smile fled, leaving him with an affronted scowl as he shifted on his side, trying to get comfortable. He never slept like that and it was putting a terrible strain on his back, but it made it easier to speak with Lester without having to move, a proposition that made his toes curl in protest. "I was bloody sectioned, how was I supposed to phone-"

Ianto felt his ability to speak disappear like his good mood, dissipating like fog in the morning sun. His brain must have been damaged some how, there was no rational explanation how he could forget _that_. He withdrew one hand from under the blankets, afraid to look at what he'd seen before, afraid to look and remember why he'd run. A frantic escape, an escape with purpose.

His hand, marked in black.

Everything about him, everything he knew and understood, felt _wrong_. Not a slow dawning but an instant awareness that even his thoughts seemed to flow just slightly left of center as the weight of his physical mass even felt abnormal in comparison to what he remembered.

Etched in black, trailing down his fingers and twisting vine-like up his arm, beautiful patterns bent in on each other, splintering lines curling and straight as they encapsulated his skin with some hidden message.

It was a language. Ianto knew it as soon as he understood that he had no fathomable reason why he should know it. He couldn't read it though, couldn't make sense of what it was trying to say, but he knew with almost guaranteed certainty what he would find when he uncovered his other hand.

Hand, marked in black.  _Not wrong. Different. Different and not normal, but not wrong._

"What the fuck is going on?" Ianto's voice cracked on the curse; he blamed the scratchy throat rather than nerves pulling in every direction fueled by adrenalin and fear. He pushed the blankets down around his hips and stared at his arms, both of them, pale skin and black sworls, dots and lines against the ivy linens. Fingers shaking, he pressed an area of black, then raked a fingernail over the surface when he felt no pain from the pressure.

They weren't covering his skin, nor were they painted on. The delicate lines swirling over the backs of his hands ... they _were_ his skin.

Tattoos?

He'd never been tattooed.

"What do you mean... Ianto? Naveen! Get in here!"

His chest.

Ianto blinked as his eyes caught a flash of black against white, the uniform shirt he'd stolen gone and all he could see were thick lines racing down his side, branches shooting off to twist and bend into patterned fine curls over his chest, the dramatic and bold fading almost into nothing the closer to the center of his torso they came.

Fading. Thinning. Explicit and purposeful. The patterns meant something.

His skin.

The lines were _his_.

He scratched his hand again, just to make sure. The sound of a door opening distracted him from trying it one more time just to be certain.

"Mr. Jones, good to see-"

> _Species Profile  
>  Species: Human  
> Origin: Earth  
> Threat Priority Level: UNKNOWN  
> \---***---  
> Individual Profile  
> Name: Naveen Ramamurthy  
> Aliases: NONE  
> Previous Violations: UNKNOWN  
> Active Warrants: NONE  
> Threat Priority Level: Low  
> Original Status:  Earth, ERCY3668  
> Current Status: Earth, ERCY2008_

"-you again under better circumstances. My sincerest apologies for my errors in diagnosis and care. If I had known this I would have arranged for your care at one of our safe houses."

Safe houses? Ianto flinched as a penlight flashed in his eyes, the hand steadying his chin feeling like remorse personified rather than flesh contacting his.

Completely unsettling.

"Naveen, I don't think he knows."

Ianto felt the hand on his chin still, then withdraw as Dr. Ramamurthy stepped back to fall into line with Lester. Know what? What was wrong with him?

 _Not wrong, different. Altered. But not wrong._  

He'd be angry with Dr. Ramamurthy later for his misdiagnosis, for thinking him mad, but the way the two were staring at him, much as Jack and Owen did after he'd hallucinated various deceased individuals, stripped the anger as quickly as it came.

Know _what_?

"I don't know how you can stand this stuff, Mr. Lester. I don't care if it is your grandmother's recipe, anything this orange is simply unnatural. And I brought your tea as well, oh! Ianto-"

> _Species Profile  
>  Species: Ckass  
> Origin: Orion  
> Threat Priority Level: Low  
> \---***---  
> Individual Profile  
> Name: Cket Nmuth  
> Aliases: Sabrina Matthews, Bree Matthews  
> Previous Violations: NONE  
> Active Warrants: NONE  
> Threat Priority Level: Low  
> Current Status: Earth, ERCY2008_

"-you're awake. Would you care for some ginger tea? I saw some in the kitchen. It might help your throat, I bet it's pretty raw after last night."

His neighbor. His bloody neighbor, Bree, was setting down a serving tray with tea and a neon-orange glass of Tang. It was _her_. Ianto knew without even her suggesting the ginger tea, he recognized that voice. Her voice. Which had been overlayed by his father's; her freckles and red hair replaced by blond hair and glasses.

It'd been Bree handing him his post.

The thought startled him as much as her appearance had. _He wasn't hallucinating._ Unless all of it wasn't real, which was a possibility Ianto really didn't want to entertain. But she was Ckass, that was the final piece in Tosh's theory. Anything alien. Yet now there were three looking at him, watching him, and all three were outside the normal scope of 21st century human and they looked as they should. No dead walking, no parents or Owen or Torchwood One. Simply them.

"Aw, cat got your tongue?" Bree giggled and then covered her mouth with her hand, but Ianto heard the smothered laughter behind it. "Oh, that's probably offensive, isn't it? I'm sorry, I didn't mean anything by it and besides, I think they're gorgeous. Quite striking. I bet your partner loves to-"

"Sabrina." Lester's tone was more warning than rebuke, silencing Bree as effectively as pushing her out of the room and closing the door behind her. "Now, Ianto, I don't want to alarm you-"

Ianto didn't think it would be possible to alarm him more than he was. He wasn't hallucinating, Bree was apologizing for offences he didn't understand and something was terribly wrong from the looks on Lester and Dr. Ramamurthy's faces.

He could smell their apprehension and that just heightened his personal tension.

"-but ... you've ... "

Lester's flailing hand didn't help. 

Ianto looked down at his bare chest, seeing the same black markings that he'd seen before. Something alien had struck him. That was the only reasonable explanation, but it didn't explain the anxious looks or Bree who wasn't even looking at his chest. She was looking behind him. Over his shoulder? Just a wall behind him, he could feel the pressure against his back.

His _back_.

Ianto closed his eyes, resisting the urge to follow the others' gaze, deluding himself that if he didn't look then whatever they saw didn't exist. He'd markings across his arms and chest, maybe he'd grown a hump. Third arm? Perhaps there was an alien attached to his back, the marks simply tendrils tendrils of alien attaching itself to him. Maybe he'd become affixed to the wall itself.

He was Torchwood; any number of things could and had happened.

A deep breath and he turned his head till his chin just brushed his shoulder. Slowly he opened one eye, as if doing so would somehow change the outcome ... or perhaps he could close it quickly again and pretend whatever it was didn't exist.

"Shit!" Ianto instinctively lept from the bed, his vision so filled with glossy black that whatever it was, he needed distance before it devoured him.  And with his leap came consequence as his upper body pushed forward with far too much momentum, top-heavy when whatever was behind him followed.

He was hallucinating. That's all there was to it. He was imagining this because it wasn't _real_.

Three pairs of hands caught him before he completely fell in a graceless heap on the floor as though they anticipated his movement. Maybe they had. But the hands didn't help, concerned and anxious and curious all tightly wound into individual pressure points on his skin. He careened backwards once they did let go, the weight unexpected and miscalculated. Vertigo in the worst of senses, he couldn't find his center; even when he thought he was steady that thing behind him shifted, moved, changed the position enough to throw him off again.

Something. Whatever it was.

Problem being, Ianto knew what _it_ was all glossy black. But perhaps if he didn't apply a name it would cease to exist.

He never was really good at pretending. Wishing, either.

"What the hell is wrong with me?" _Not wrong. Altered. Different. But not wrong._   Ianto knew that as much as he denied it, denied everything from the marks to the things on his back. "Undo this."

"Undo?" Dr. Ramamurthy stepped forward to match Ianto's step back, grabbing his shoulders before he toppled over completely. To Ianto's relief, he let go nearly as quickly, holding on only until Ianto had steadied himself. "I don't know that anything's exactly _wrong_ with you."

Not even the weight on his back moved Ianto, frozen still by the doctor's words.

This was not _him_.

"Tell me this isn't real." It wasn't real. It couldn't be. And even if it was, it wasn't because of him. A device, something, somewhere struck him and this was the result. Or a drug. An infection. A consequence of shagging Jack, like an alien STD. "Tell me I'm hallucinating like before." He didn't trust Dr. Ramamurthy; hell, he didn't even know the man. Didn't really know Bree either. It'd been an error in judgement to phone Lester. This wasn't _real_. He was still at Providence Park, or better yet, passed out in the autopsy bay of the Hub. Or in a coma and dreaming.

"Tell me I've not got fucking wings attached to my back." Ianto shouted, ineffectual really given his voice but there was need; it was either that or give in to the panic. "Tell me that somewhere in that 37th century brain, doctor, you know how to bloody undo this!"

It wasn't real. Just a hallucination. Jack would know, he'd know what was wrong. _Not wrong. Different. True._ But he'd gotten nowhere with Jack and Torchwood before; they'd solved nothing and had him sectioned. And whatever it was had advanced, worsened, leaving him in this state. Fuck Torchwood. But he had no one else so what the hell was he supposed to do?

"How do you know that?"

Ianto's focus snapped from the splotch on the wall, some kind of patchy fading cloth once probably a rich burgundy but now more a smoothie-orange, that had captured his attention. Not that he'd been studiously analyzing the patch, but the riveting procedure of tracing individual threads had occupied the half of his persona inclined to run around the room screaming and kicking things. It was calming. But Dr. Ramamurthy's question derailed all calm. "Know what?"

"37th century. I never told you that."

He tried, he honestly did, to come up with an explanation for how he knew the information. Someone had said it, maybe during the point from the road to wherever _this_ was that he couldn't remember. Ianto knew that was the most rational explanation. Most rational and simplest.

But as rational as it might be, he understood that wasn't the correct answer.

For every second Ianto wasted trying to formulate words that failed to capture the uncatchable, the honest confusion on Dr. Ramamurthy's face drifted to suspicion and hostility. And if Ianto read the expression properly, a little bit of fear, which logic failed to explain as well.

The unease sent a shiver down his spine, not because he believed Dr. Ramamurthy was fearful of ... whatever had happened to him, but rather that the doctor believed there was a reason to fear _him_. Ianto would have pursued that path of thought towards understanding but the reflexive shiver had an additional consequence as he _felt_ along lengths which before had never existed, ruffling with a soft thrum the air at his back. Nothing dramatic, nothing drastic, but he felt it.

By all the gods in spacetime, he _felt_ it. Down the twin lengths, long as he was tall, like a tickle in his arms, Ianto sensed the shiver travel. Even if he hadn't yet seen he could visualize precisely the shape and size because they were _him_.

 _His_ bloody wings.

If this was the result of an alien STD he received from Jack, Ianto was going to personally see to the removal of everything the man held dear, up to and including hair, coffee, prick and greatcoat.

Movement distracted him yet again, his ability to concentrate on one thing seemingly completely fractured though Ianto reasoned there was justification to his scattered thoughts given recent events. Dr. Ramamurthy had turned and stared at Lester in blatant defiance, so like Owen in mannerism (though definitely not in looks, Ianto would have to be blind not to appreciate the man's beauty, from the dark mane of curls framing his face to the expressive brown eyes narrowing in response to Ianto's lack of one) that for a moment, Ianto believed that perhaps he'd simply been transported to another time, another place, alternates running around in different bodies but embodying the personalities of Torchwood Three.

It would also provide a perfectly rational argument against the marks. And the other things.

"I vouch for him, Naveen. The lad's not a threat to you."

"He's Torchwood."

"He's one of us, first."

Ianto watched the exchange but didn't quite know what to make of it, other than Lester was implying (not so) vague notions that Ianto didn't want to consider. "No, you're wrong. I'm not one of you," he interrupted before he had to listen to any more of the apparent stand-off. "This ... isn't me. Something's wrong and there's a cure, I just need to find it. Research. Do you have a library here? A computer?"

Even while he said the words, the lie felt as obvious had it been dressed in blinking neon lighting.  _Not wrong._   

"Careful what you say around here, Ianto." His old boss turned to him, patting his shoulder. Unlike before, the gesture spoke nothing more than comforting reassurance to Ianto. "That cure you speak of implies that we're faulted humans. And much as I appreciate the lot for supporting my business ventures, I do not wish to be one." Lester smirked and Ianto at first was taken aback before he realized the look wasn't directed at him. In fact, Ianto was almost certain the Alteran's third eye was looking directly at Dr. Ramamurthy. It would have been spooky had Ianto not witnessed working security at the poker parlor.  "No offense, Naveen."

For a moment, Ianto thought Dr. Ramamurthy would argue, but the fight left as quickly as it came. He grabbed a tablet PC instead, shoving it into Ianto's hands. "Data from scans taken after we got you here, plus labs taken at hospital. I'll run further analysis later, but all initial readings indicate this is not caused by an exterior source. And if you honestly know nothing of who you are, I can begin sequencing once I've a vial of your blood to compare to known species. We might at least be able to identify a common ancestor from whom to start."

Before Ianto could open his mouth to argue that he was human, that he'd been born and raised _human_ and this was all ... a terrible misunderstanding and there was no _species_ to identify ( _lie, a lie and he knew it_ ), Dr. Ramamurthy stepped closer, pushing just hard enough at the tablet Ianto clutched to his chest that he could feel the warning. "I don't know how you know when I'm from, but if Torchwood finds me, your name will be the first and only name to leave my lips. Do you understand? I've lived far too long to be threatened by those savages."

"We're not-" Ianto cut himself off, his mind flashing to Torchwood Standard Operating Procedure. Not that Jack ever followed it, but Torchwood One had. Down to the last tittle, to their eternal detriment. But even considering Jack's leniency with the Torchwood protocol, Ianto wasn't quite sure how that applied to him now.

He didn't want to even give rise to the thought of Jack's reaction to ... this.

Dr. Ramamurthy nodded, taking Ianto's half-response for whatever affirmative he'd sought and left the room, reducing the overall number in the room, but for some reason, Ianto believed that somehow increased the focus of the remaining two.

"Don't mind him. He's lived through some rough years in London. Good man, just prefers to keep his secrets his own."

Earlier panic dwindled into resigned numbness, and Ianto couldn't even think of an appropriate response to Lester's endorsement of the doctor. Looking down was a mistake. The black lines stretching across his skin curled into accusatory reminders of everything he was doing his best to avoid thinking about. Not to mention, the action shifted the weight at his back again, reminding him of ... all of that. He'd gotten better at standing, however, less leaning and more upright as his mind and body quickly adjusted to the change.

Adapting quickly, almost like it was natural.  _Not wrong._   

It couldn't be real, could it? He'd spent so much time fighting to discern reality from hallucination it was difficult to tell anymore which he'd prefer when reality suddenly deviated from 'normal.'

Was it better than a life at Providence Park? It made him sick to even consider the possibility that it might be.

"I imagine you'd like some time to yourself. Get used to things, look over the information Naveen gave you." Lester grabbed the tray Bree had brought in, smacking his lips over a long drink from his glass. Tang. Ianto had known Lester was an alien, even before he'd seen the third eye, because of that drink. First he'd ever really known of aliens, but it hadn't bothered him much at all. Was even that connected? "There's a mirror there, inside the wardrobe door. And when you're done, the place is yours. Kitchen's stocked, there's even coffee in there."

Ianto didn't look at the wardrobe, didn't even move. Bree smiled at him, silent through all, but not once did her smile waver. Or leer, Ianto noted as the realization struck that he stood in just the uniform pants he'd stolen. He'd be embarrassed, but really, being with Jack had made any embarrassment over his body disappear overnight.

Fuck. _Jack._

It was possible, Ianto knew, that given he appeared to no longer be hallucinating, he would be able to see Jack instead of the light. It was also possible that Jack would take one look at him and lock him up in a cell next to all the other Torchwood Three permanent guests. But Jack wasn't that way, Ianto was quick to reassure himself, for what little good that did. Jack was a good man who had divorced himself and Torchwood Three from Torchwood One. He might not care.

He might.

Ianto bolstered his resolve not to think of Jack, their relationship or even of Torchwood Three by remembering the long-buried images of the team shooting Annie-Lisa, of Jack sending Myfanwy to feed on Lisa. Lisa the Cyberman.

 _Alien._

Fuck, what if he had an ulterior motive? A prime directive to kill inborn in his psyche, one he couldn't resist if he tried? What if-

"Ianto."

His head snapped front-and-center at the sound of Lester's voice, startled out of his thoughts.

"Whatever it is you're thinking, stop. You'll do no good by yourself thinking in terrible circles of what-ifs and maybes."

In response to the question he never needed to ask, Lester gestured to him ... no, _behind_ him, and Ianto realized one more important thing about his new self.

Agitation and stress - causing the sensation of hair rising on the back of his neck as tension worked its way down his spine until he felt almost rigid with the desperate withdrawal of emotions - most likely had a different result when he had two large fucking wings attached to his back.  

Where was his Torchwood One control now?

"Don't worry, lad. Couldn't have called in a better favor. Universe righting itself out. Who'd have guessed we were supposed to meet?" For some reason, Ianto failed to latch hold of Lester's enthusiasm. Though, he rather thought enthusiasm was beyond him at the moment. "Come join us when you feel up to it, we've got a lot to catch up on."

Lester raised his glass of Tang before gesturing to Bree with the tray to follow him as he left.

She didn't, for what reason Ianto couldn't imagine, but he assumed it had nothing to do with some missing post.

"They really are gorgeous, you know. Suits you." Ianto tried to smile in acknowledgement and thanks for her effort, but he felt it fail miserably. At least he tried. "I don't know if it matters, or if it's even relevant. But when I was a kid growing up on Orion, we heard stories. The kind they tell on Earth, you know the ones, monster under the bed type of stories."

Ianto nodded with the disheartening feeling that she was going to tell him he resembled the boogeyman.

"Oh, cheer up, you." She touched his arm in play, but he didn't flinch or pull away; it was almost nice. Reassuring. "It's not like that. See, there was one story, some children were out playing where they weren't supposed to, and a giant, fire-breathing Hornsk attacked. Heard of them? They're vicious, all teeth and little else. But the children were saved by a winged creature named Bob, and you just sort of remind me of the way the story described him."

"Bob?" Ianto couldn't stop the snort of laughter, and the rasp in his throat made the name two syllables instead of one, but surely, not _Bob_? "So what was the winged creature called?" He asked mostly in jest, but in part curiosity simply because it was the first hint of an answer, even if it was entirely false, just the bedtime ghost stories of another world.

"We didn't really have a name for them, or rather, we didn't know their real name. We just called them angels."

Ianto scowled, remembering the collection of little white ceramic angels his mother had kept in the windowsill, their wings edged in chintzy gold leaf.  Her little army, she'd called them.  But she had had collections of newspapers, rocks, and tangles of hair, so he hardly believed it of any relevance other than a common theme across cultures, Ckass and humans alike. 

"Yeah, we have those stories here, too."   Everything had burned; his mother's little army lost.  
   
***

Ianto watched Bree leave the room, closing the door behind her. And with her all the sound fled and the bedroom quieted to stillness, not even the birds sang.  

Quiet. Until Ianto started laughing, because really, what other option was there?

Crying, screaming, kicking things. But those all seemed so far outside the realm of possibility.

He laughed until his stomach hurt, doubled over and clutching Lester's leather chair to steady himself, the computer long forgotten. Laughed until the idea of 'angels' had lost its amusement. Laughed until it no longer seemed funny.

Laughed until he realized that he hadn't toppled over, face first into the cushion, because of the weight of the wings.

He laughed until he balanced.

It was as sobering as it was surreal.

All mirth vanished in favor of determination. Ianto collected himself enough to stand, aware of how easy it was and not sure whether he should be pleased with the progress or concerned for how 'normal' it felt. The wardrobe beckoned, the looming wooden box instilling far more terror than a bloody Dalek and he knew that terror. It was ridiculous and silly, but Ianto had never felt such childish trepidation.

The mirror, the monster under his bed.

Irrational and if he could get over the mental images of Owen standing with a gun aimed directly at his (Annie-Lisa's) heart, he could hear Owen mocking him for being a coward.

Ianto opened the door of the wardrobe forcefully, just to silence the internal ridicule.

He just didn't tell the voice of Owen in his head that he had his eyes closed.

Anxiety was felt on levels of his first Torchwood One interview, of setting up that first encounter with Jack, of brewing that perfect coffee that he was sure to win Jack over. Of every day dreading the discovery of Lisa and the anticipation of finding a cure.

There hadn't been a cure for her.

Slowly, he opened his eyes, knowing the mirror nor the quest for self-identity would ever truly go away. At first he didn't see, didn't permit himself even though his eyes were open, creating a moment when he actually thought he'd somehow made himself blind through anxiety.

He hadn't, however. And slowly his eyes focused on the figure reflected in the mirror, pale skin accentuated by black swirled lines-

>  _Species Profile  
>  Species: Windhovers  
> Known Variants: Angels, Protectorati, Guardians, Sky Walkers, Seraphim   
> Origin: (d) Halcyon   
> Alert Status: MIN - Individual  
> Network: ACTIVE  
> \---***---  
> Individual Profile  
> Name: Ianto Jones  
> Aliases: NONE  
> Current Status: Earth, ERCY2008_ 

-extending below the waistband of his trousers, which he refused to lower for fear of what he might see.  Just to make sure, and he would swear until his dying breath it was without panic, Ianto did pull the waistband out enough so that he could reach a hand down and just double check that everything was in order.  Prick, balls, all good.   

A small relief. 

After resettling the trousers on his hips, Ianto froze at the sight before him, finally taking in his full body in the mirror. 

His face, too.

He didn't know whether to cry or laugh, the ideas of blending in (the unmentionables on his back excluded) as Bree had accomplished slipping away like silk over glass as he pressed fingertips to his cheeks, his temples. 

Black lines, fine and delicate swirled up from his neck, curling over his jawline and round near his ears, branching up until the patterns stretched over his temples.  Dots and sworls, intricate as they intertwined in a recognizable form he couldn't place, a language he couldn't speak.  Lines and curves shadowing his hairline, lightening - or rather simply becoming fewer in quantity - as they worked middle towards his nose and mouth, arching over and around his eyes with faint traces of black painting pale, but he knew it wasn't painted; it wouldn't merely wash away.

It was him, his face, his skin, marked by something alien. 

While fingers traced a lone sinuous line over his cheekbone, movement caught his eye, subtle yet enough that it brought his undivided attention involuntarily to a point just over his shoulders. By that time it was too late to deny, too late to pretend.

They were _there_.

Wings arching sharply from a point on his back before falling in relief; glossy jet-black _feathers_ for fuck's sake, and as much as Ianto's mind protested what he saw, gone was any belief that it was wrong.  Conflicting but right, normal, normalcy the only thing stopping Ianto from lashing out, breaking the mirrored glass to shatter his reflection and the possibility of existence. 

 _Windhovers_. 

Ianto tried the name out on his tongue while he stared, turning to the side so he could see more. When he couldn't quite see his back because the long span of the wing fell nearly to the floor, he thought and the wing _moved_.  Fuck, it was really connected to him.  Connected; he could _move_ them. 

Difficult at first, a feeling not dissimilar from shaking a hand after Jack slept on it wrong, cutting off circulation, pins and needles signifying the waking limb. Slowly control returned, a welcome sensation when everything had been so numb.

He'd been numb before. 

And now every nerve woke, pins and needle awareness spreading down like fire across the wings, tendons straining as muscles flexed and relaxed, not remembering but _learning_. 

Shit, it was _real_.

Or an exceedingly elaborate hallucination, but Ianto wasn't that lucky in life.

Just a thought and movement, the wings bending at the joints extended above his head, fanning out until one side was stopped by the bed.  _Feathers_ , appearing soft and light-weight but at the same time gleaming like obsidian as they stretched long, a contradiction in - and blending of - sensations his eyes couldn't quite separate into unique and logical categories.   

He should be scared.  He should be having the stress-induced breakdown he'd been expecting starting with Torchwood One.

 _Windhovers_.

Ianto didn't know how he knew that name, wasn't even really aware when or how it came to him.  It was nebulous, intangible, fist-fulls of nothing if he tried to pin it down.  But it was there, just as with Dr. Ramamurthy. 

Touching his reflection in the mirror he traced the angle of one wing, following it until his fingers fell off the mirror edge. 

He couldn't go back.

The thought made his hand tremble as they touched the pane of glass again, this time following the curve of his neck as the intricate black lines played over his skin, hovering over the stricken expression.  He couldn't hide, not even with his best avoidance skills.  And he couldn't be confined to the Hub, he'd go mad fighting Myfanwy for airspace.

His hand covered the image in the mirror when it reflected the sound not quite a sob but the feeling was similar, the very joke of the idea nearly enough to unsettle the loose emotional stability he maintained.

No hallucination this time.  It was all so very real.  

 _Windhovers_.     


	9. Chapter 9

If asked, Ianto would like to have said that he handled the unexpected developments with typical aplomb, embracing the new 'him' with a natural, curious enthusiasm tempered by Torchwood One-bred stolidity.  

Ianto sipped his coffee, then cradled the mug in his hands, the empty kitchen providing the quiet backbone to his brooding.

He'd be lying, of course. Aplomb had miserably failed, and the fact that he observed himself mimicking Owen's behavior following his promotion from living to undead did nothing to buoy Ianto's thoughts. Not that he was as self-destructive as Owen had been, but he could now fully sympathize with the grief and rage, the depression and the questions for a life completely undone by factors far removed from control.

It'd taken thirty-eight hours before he'd finally emerged from his self-imposed isolation, mostly due to hunger thanks to what he assumed was Lester's personal kick-in-the-arse. Ianto had been granted the private time he'd needed, but he'd been neither coddled nor mothered. Not even Bree had stopped in with a cup of ginger tea.

Time had been divided between exploration and denial. One moment Ianto would be staring at himself in the mirror, analyzing every inch of himself and searching for even the slightest deviation from memory or studying the new. In the next, he'd have slammed the wardrobe door shut and curled in a ball on the bed, pretending the warmth covering him was a blanket and not _wings_.

He'd showered in the lavatory adjoining his bedroom, the first shower he'd actually given himself in well over a month, and he'd debated wanking just to see if his cock still functioned the same despite the black lines curling and twisting in patterns over the shaft.

The combined thought of touching the marks and the fear that somehow the wings had altered that prior form of entertainment killed any possible pleasure, so Ianto had instead focused on just how the fuck he was supposed to 'bathe' his wings, or if he even needed to.

 _Wings_.

The name _Windhovers_ blended with his coffee as Ianto drank, teasing his mind with possibility and questions. It was just a name, nothing more, and really Ianto hadn't the slightest notion what it meant or who they were, other than believing unequivocally that he was one. He'd yet to actually tell anyone what he knew, and Ianto wasn't exactly sure why he avoided saying anything at all. Dr. Ramamurthy drew blood samples and ran tests of all sorts, but no one seemed to know what race he was, so Ianto didn't feel inclined to proffer the information. The labs came back "off-the-charts alien," which the doctor found intriguing given both Ianto's previous human appearance and the humanoid form he possessed now, wings notwithstanding. In fact, Ianto looked so much like _himself_ that he wanted to argue that the tests were wrong, that his DNA wasn't really unrecognizable, and that Dr. Ramamurthy was a shoddy doctor who shouldn't be practicing medicine.

Of course, none of that was true and he had the wings to prove it.

Despite knowing that Lester and Bree were alien and that Dr. Ramamurthy was not of this time, Ianto still found it difficult to finally open that bedroom door and venture out into the rest of the house, but the cries of his stomach and his personal loathing for self-pity drove him to seek the kitchen. It'd been empty at that late of hour and Ianto had taken full advantage by making his first mug of coffee in over a month.  

He'd sipped it slowly, black and strong, luxuriating in the small fact that he once again had the freedom to enjoy coffee.

The coffee mug had a giant yellow smiley face on it, 'Be Happy!' printed in the bottom of the mug. Ianto tried not to think too much about the implications of his mug choice.

It had become habit, every night for nearly two weeks now, as Ianto discovered he slept far less than he had before. Most often his indulgences with the coffee were private; only once had Lester joined him with his glass of Tang, sharing a companionable silence with Ianto at the table shoved off to one corner of the kitchen. Like the rest of the house, the kitchen was enormous, cluttered with the oddest of trinkets amidst fine china and silver. Its extensively remodeled cooking area looked far more futuristic than modern.

And he was fairly sure the cookbooks had never been cracked.

It wasn't that the kitchen was never in use - no, the first time Ianto had ventured out during the day, he'd walked into the kitchen and faced an entire group of people. Alien, all of them. A Preocis from Andromeda, two Natuki siblings, a family of Clifftans, and one Dribite turned and stared.

Well, they hadn't stared, but that's what it'd felt like when Ianto had walked in the room, shirtless, in denims a size too small. ("Bree's picking up some clothes for you," Lester had said.) He would have retreated immediately but one of the Clifftan children (Ianto still wasn't sure on the name) had called out "bird man!" and thus began the awkward apologies from the parents and stilted conversation followed as he was dragged fully into the kitchen. Once he'd found something to eat from the array of foods, he secluded himself from the group.

He didn't intend to be rude, but he supposed it was. The two Clifftan children apparently were incapable of understanding subtle hints, climbing onto his lap to touch his hands, his arms, his face, his _wings_ (and may grabby hands never pull on his wings again), basically anywhere they could.  

It was like they'd never seen an alien before

New aliens came and went every day, some humans displaced in time, others as far from humanoid as was imaginable. Ianto couldn't quite figure how they knew Lester, but given what he knew of Lester's background in less than legal activities, he assumed it would be better not to ask. He really didn't give himself a chance to ask, preferring to wander the grounds, exploring the house or doing research in the surprisingly large library.

He wasn't avoiding contact with others, not really. Maybe a little, but definitely not to the point of true isolation. The number of visitors was just a bit overwhelming, and Ianto still felt the pressure of curiosity weighing on his shoulders. Or, rather, his wings. Or the marks. Or maybe he was just imagining it, a psychology transference of his own discomfort onto the presumed reactions of others.

Entirely possible, given the hours he'd wasted staring at the marks on his hand.

Ianto drained the last of his coffee and stared at the inscription fired into the bottom of the mug; he'd choose better, next mug. It reminded him too much of something his mother would have owned, along with an array of other silly things she found amusing, like the plastic frog salt and pepper shakers that croaked when one used them and the gilt-winged angels on her windowsill.

His mother had been on his mind a lot.

Unsurprising, given his recent stint at Providence Park.

With a scowl, Ianto stood and wandered to the sink to wash up the mug and scattered dishes collecting on the countertops. It wasn't only his stay that brought her to mind, it was everything, from seeing her outside the Information Center to Providence Park to _this_ , whatever _this_ was. He didn't understand it; his mother lacked wings or marks of any kind, so where did he fit in? The thought that they might not be his parents by blood made his heart race a little faster, his hands shake as he scrubbed dried tomato from a plate.

But they would always be his parents, even if they weren't by birth.

The far more terrifying thought, the one that left him nauseous and struggling for composure around the lump in his throat was the idea that he _was_ her child by birth.

They'd both been sectioned. It couldn't be coincidence that they'd both ended up at Providence Park, could it?

And he'd signed her papers. Not that he'd really had any valid influence as he was still a youth and the doctors would have done it with or without his consent, but he'd been next of kin.

They'd both ended up at Providence Park.

Ianto consciously stopped the furious scrubbing of the plate and took a deep breath, attempting to relax and shake the threatening guilt. If she had been one of them ... a Windhover ... and her illness had actually been ... whatever had happened to him. He still wasn't quite sure, but he was aware of differences, of knowing when he shouldn't know. Species. Some names. Odd impressions of danger or safety. It was never consistent and always surprised him when he realized what should have been an abnormality acted as accepted thought within his mind.

And his mother, she'd been locked up, same as he.

"Troubled thoughts again?"

Ianto couldn't help but startle as the sound of Lester's voice broke into his self-recrimination; hands jerking so hard that he dropped the dish back into the sink. Immediately he picked it up and examined the plate for chips or cracks, but thankfully the dish remained whole. The same couldn't be said for his nerves.

It was overwhelming, the awareness that he'd been caught by surprise and just how wrong that was. He'd let his guard down, drawn too far inward. Unnerving and disappointing.  

Lester just smiled as he grabbed the plate from Ianto's hands, setting it on the drying rack. "Your wings are your worst tell right now. Too tied to your emotions and too visible."

With a snort, Ianto returned his focus to washing up the remaining dishes. "My poker game thanks you. Next time I play at the Empire, I'll be sure to create a suitable deflection to distract them from watching my wings for cues."

The next plate disappeared from Ianto's hands as well. He would have thanked Lester for expediting the process except once the dishes were clean, he'd need something else to occupy himself. Preferably something that distracted him from thinking. They washed in silence interspersed with side-glances from Lester that began grating on Ianto's nerves as much had the other been rambling aimlessly about the weather or the fear he was going to need a monocle soon for his third eye which was beginning to show signs of myopia.

All the dishes were clean and Lester wandered to the small, mobile island that functioned as a mini-bar. Ianto had to admit the ingenuity; anywhere the conversations took place within the kitchen, a few favored spirits were only a roll away. He did fear where this conversation might be headed as Lester brought the bar with him, pouring two glasses of whisky before setting the decanter aside but within reach.

"It's come to my attention that your employer, Jack Harkness -" Lester began as he handed Ianto a glass, a glass from which Ianto quickly took a drink given the subject matter, "- and his team have been tearing apart Cardiff looking for you. Seems convinced your disappearance was not voluntary."

"Neither was my sectioning," Ianto remarked before he could stop the words from bypassing every brain-mouth filter he possessed. He knew the full story now, of confusion among the doctors and mangled paperwork filing resulting in his transference to Providence Park on basis of no friends or family listed among his records, of Jack attempting to trump all involved by claiming Torchwood only to have Owen counter-trump as Ianto's physician that it might be in his best interests to remain at Providence for an evaluation period. Ianto didn't necessarily blame anyone in particular for the situation - hell, having someone else monitor his care meant that Torchwood was free to find out what was wrong with him - but that didn't mean he didn't feel betrayed.

Especially since they never did figure out what was wrong.

And now he realized he may have betrayed his mother in kind.

"Yes, that was most unfortunate. However, we still have the problem of Mr. Harkness tearing apart Cardiff." Lester eyed him over his glass and Ianto began to wonder just what were Lester's interests. "You won't go back, will you."

Statement, not even remotely a question. But Ianto incredulously couldn't believe Lester would consider the alternate possibility. "Are you mad?" Maybe madness was contagious. Ianto wouldn't even dare consider calling Jack, because Tosh would immediately trace the call to this location - a location even he wasn't sure of, just that it was outside of London and that Bree and Dr. Ramamurthy had brought him here. But he wasn't about to clue Jack in on someone who'd barely escaped Torchwood years ago, much less clue Jack in that he lived ... and 'oh, by the way, don't mind the wings.'

No way was he going back to Torchwood.

"Didn't think you would." Lester didn't appear to blame him, but Ianto felt the need to parse and judge every word before he spoke. Warily, he sipped his whisky and hoped the alcohol wouldn't addle his mind. "Do you think he'll stop looking?"

"Eventually," Ianto quickly responded, then stopped as the utter lack of truth in those words were realized. Memories from before Providence flooded his mind - of his flat and the scones, of the encounter with his mother, of arguing and amends, of Owen and the Weevil - and from during his stay at the institution - of seeing the light watching, there when he looked out the window, of the night the light joined him and wept for failure. They had no definition to their relationship, no grand declarations or commitments, but he knew with certainty that Jack would never stop. "Unlikely."

"Then we have a problem."

Ianto's eyes narrowed as he rapidly considered all the things Lester might be involved with in Cardiff that would be of concern. "They won't bust your parlors if that's what you're concerned about. They're looking for me, not illegal operations."

"They're looking for anything alien because they believe that's what was wrong. And not necessarily inaccurate." Lester gestured at Ianto's back with his glass, and Ianto bit his tongue to keep himself from saying anything disparaging about Lester in retaliation of the honesty. "Do you know how many aliens live in Cardiff?"

"At least two." Ianto really had no idea beyond that. He'd never really considered it, given that Torchwood was far more reactionary than preemptive. There were far more than that if one counted Weevils, which really was an undefined population. 

"Try one thousand, six hundred and forty-two peaceful citizens registered with me." Ianto stared, he couldn't help it. Given his assumption that Weevils had not registered, it might be less than one percent of the population, but that was still a relatively large number for Cardiff.  "Including three multi-generational families who have been here longer than you've breathed, ten additional families, and a smattering of couples, siblings, and the poor lot who end up here alone, all under Torchwood's radar. And your friends are going about with their tech looking for anyone who might know anything."

Ianto read between what Lester said and didn't say, that all those one thousand, six hundred and forty-two were in danger of being discovered. And that's with the ones who had registered. There were perhaps more, Ianto knew of a few that Jack himself had helped place and the ones who ended up at Flat Holm needing specific care. Jack had transformed Torchwood Three. Before his control, and with Torchwood One, those aliens wouldn't have stood a chance of living any kind of life. Even now, it made Ianto sick to consider how many lives could be affected if Torchwood discovered them. Not that Jack would harm them, but Torchwood had such a reputation the members of Torchwood Three would be lucky to survive a retaliation of one thousand, six hundred and forty-two if they thought their lives were at stake.

He opened his mouth to speak, intending to defend Torchwood Three, but his mind took a different track, latching onto information that he remembered. "But according to Galactic Law, they're well within their right to seek asylum if planetarily displaced so long as they adhere to current social regulations and do not engage in activity providing technology beyond the means of the current development. Torchwood can't interfere if they're not breaking the laws and customs."

"You don't say?" Lester took a casual sip of his drink but Ianto could sense the shift of interest, the honing of the concentration Ianto had seen at play during poker hands, only this was far more fierce and he swore he could almost touch the intensity emanating from Lester. He wasn't quite sure if he should be afraid of it. "What do you know of Galactic Law, lad?"

"I don't know." Ianto wasn't even sure _how_ he knew. As much as it felt like he'd always known the rights of refugees of space and time, Ianto knew he hadn't some time ago. It had to be connected with the names, with knowing immediately when he saw an individual their species. But it made no sense _how_ he knew. He certainly hadn't learned it at Torchwood One; knowing that place, they had probably broken every law possible.

"And the Judoon?"

"Mercenary thugs employed by corporations profiting off the corruption of the Shadow Proclamation." Ianto quite literally felt his lips curl in distaste, the thought of the Judoon so foul the stench turned his stomach. Maybe it wasn't the Judoon, maybe it was the corporations who purchased their services or maybe it was the abuse of the Shadow Proclamation. Something within his response, however, had him turning to his glass of whisky to wash away the utter revulsion.

And as the alcohol burned down his throat, Ianto against wondered how the hell he knew any of that.

"Ianto?"

"I don't _know_." He held out his glass, begging a refill which Lester did without question. Silence stretched in comfortable familiarity after Lester returned the glass, and filled the space while Ianto swirled the whisky three times before taking a drink. "Some things," Ianto said finally, knowing full well he was playing into the basic interrogation trick but knew Lester would say nothing until Ianto spoke. For a moment of distraction, he tugged at the sleeve of one of two shirts now in his possession, crafted by some seamstress Lester knew. The back operated by a series of buttons, creating a seam down his spine with a wide hole in the upper back to allow for his wings. He appreciated the clothing immensely, but it was an embarrassment requesting assistance to dress in the morning. Ianto supposed he'd have to get used to either that or no shirt as he didn't have many options at his disposal. "Some things just _are_ in my head and I don't know why."  

"Like Naveen's origins."  

"Yep." He refused to say any more on the subject, preferring to keep the information regarding his own personal revelations to himself. And Lester seemed perfectly aware that he was hiding something more, or perhaps even correctly assumed what the 'something' was, but he didn't push for it, for what reason Ianto couldn't quite figure out.

"Bit of wonder you are indeed." Lester smiled and raised his glass in toast; Ianto rolled his eyes in return but raised his glass, figuring it'd be better to play along than to argue. "But that still doesn't solve our Jack Harkness problem. Naveen's getting anxious the more reports come in."

"Reports?" His mind latched onto the word and Ianto looked at Lester with suspicion. "You're spying on Torchwood?"

He didn't think he'd ever seen a man (or alien) as smug as Lester looked as he leaned back against the counter, drink beside him and his hands clasped and resting on his ample middle.

"We always have been. Had to, really, for our own protection before Torchwood Three internally collapsed and Torchwood One fell. Quite relieved to hear you'd survived that, actually." Lester grabbed his glass again, waving it in Ianto's direction, looking rather pleased with himself if Ianto was to be asked. "What, you thought it was coincidence that Sabrina was your neighbor?"

Stunned speechless, Ianto had to admit that he had in fact either never considered it or had believed it coincidence. There was just one more piece to the puzzle, and once he found his tongue and the courage to confess to never having thought of it over the past two weeks, he spoke up. "And Dr. Ramamurthy?"

"Torchwood brings in one of their own, injured on the job? I assigned myself to your case immediately. Never can be too careful when it's Torchwood." Ianto turned to find Dr. Ramamurthy leaning against the door frame, legs casually crossed and looking as pleased with himself as Lester had. The idea that he'd been watched, for years by one and recently by another, left him extremely uneasy, almost anxious. It shouldn't matter, but it did, tickling every nerve ending until he felt as wound as he had that horrible day in the Hub when everyone had been watching, only this time he swore Ianto could feel it even in the tips of every feather. "In fact, I've been wondering if the injury and anti-psychotics may have delayed this development if as you say you'd been experiencing hallucinations for a time prior to the concussion."

Ianto tampered down the urge to irritably insult the doctor's skills and failure to realize something more had been in play during events at hospital. He and the doctor had worked to a tenuous relationship over the past two weeks, Dr. Ramamurthy still wary of Ianto's knowledge but ultimately his intrigue as to Ianto's biology and "metamorphosis" as he liked to call it triumphed.

The boyish glee Dr. Ramamurthy exhibited as he theorized and drew conjecture about this previously undiscovered species would have amused Ianto if he hadn't been the subject and focus of the doctor's enthusiasm.  As it was, Ianto relied on him to figure out what had happened and Dr. Ramamurthy depended on Ianto for the genetic mystery. A symbiotic relationship, perhaps, but at least Lester was no longer defending Ianto's presence.

He even, sometimes, found it pleasant to be around Dr. Ramamurthy, even if Ianto would never admit it. But the man was a better chess player than Lester, and Ianto knew better than to challenge Lester to a card game.

Dr. Ramamurthy angled away from the door frame to look into the hall, beckoning to an individual to join them in the kitchen. Perhaps he'd brought Bree with him again; Ianto hadn't seen her for quite a time, and after Lester's statements regarding Jack and Torchwood he rather worried for her freedom. Though maybe she was just busy with her own life, or quite possibly in hiding at one of the safe houses, the ones that Dr. Ramamurthy had mentioned that first day but Ianto had never really considered until now.

He hoped she was safe; the other two chatted while he stared at his drink, considering his options or how best to deal with Jack. They could cover it up, fake Ianto's death; it wasn't like he hadn't ever done that in the past with Torchwood. It'd be more complicated given the technology Torchwood Three possessed, but it could be done.

Ianto simply didn't know if he was ready to completely give up his life just yet.

Even though it was technically gone already unless wings suddenly became the new fashion in Paris, Ianto was reluctant to have his old life ... killed. He hated to do that to the team, he hated the idea of never going back to everything he was and owned, and most of all, he hated to do that to _Jack_. Jack wouldn't kill him or even turn him over for study, Ianto was certain of this, but Ianto couldn't live a life constrained to the Hub. The idea of presenting the dead remains of "Ianto" to Jack, however ... he'd seen what Owen's death had done to Jack.

Though would it be more cruel for Jack to think he still lived?

Ianto realized his thoughts were circling back to arguments over the survivors living at Flat Holm and communicating their status to known relatives, and he nearly laughed at the irony.

"-crash near Abergavenny. Put up most of them at the safe house in Monmouth, but Celia and Mihouf offered to meet with you to discuss arrangements. Wesley's running from UNIT, encountered a squadron in London while out doing some independent investigation, fancies himself quite the journalist-"

He looked up when the sounds of hard-soled shoes scuffed the tiled floor, the pair Celia and Mihouf appearing battered but whole, though he wasn't sure if the Nertin race was naturally green in color or if it was a consequence of the crash as the shade reminded Ianto of Lester's Tang. Their returned looks made him uncomfortable, staring at both his wings and the markings on his face, their eyes a golden amber not dissimilar from the whisky he sipped. It was getting a bit ridiculous, and it was small wonder why he tended to avoid everyone who passed through Lester's place. Which was a rather incredible number; Ianto did have to wonder how the refugee process worked, and just how the hell Dr. Ramamurthy had gotten all of them out of the craft before Torchwood arrived.

Fuck, what if Torchwood Three was becoming lax in their duties due to their search for him?

The thought was as unpleasant as it was warming, but Ianto knew the dangers that lurked in the shadows. And while it was somewhat a comfort to know that Torchwood was turning Cardiff upside down looking for him, the fact that they would be derelict in their duties ratcheted the anxiety. Torchwood was there to protect the citizens of Britain, a service desperately needed.

But Jack wouldn't allow the team to lose sight of Torchwood's directive, would he?

Ianto grimaced behind his glass, realizing that it seemed just the thing Jack would do himself, let alone the entire team. Never ones for following protocol, not unless they believed him dead.

Squeaky, rubber-heeled footsteps on tiled floor distracted him from his thoughts and Ianto looked up from his glass to -

> _Species Profile  
>  Species: Bandala  
> Origin: New Earth  
> Threat Priority Level: Low  
> \---***---  
> Individual Profile  
> Name: Weslinoteth Lyone Braden Hartmew, Jr  
> Aliases: Archibald Douglass, Guy Lyone, Wesley  
> Previous Violations: NONE  
> Active Warrants: 6 (SIX) COUNTS Xenocide of Sentient Species in Violation of Section 4.6ac. 39 (THIRTY-NINE) COUNTS Xenocide of Non-Sentient Level Four Species in Violation of Section 4.7be. 14 (FOURTEEN) COUNTS Unlawful Use of Particle Disrupter: Class F in Willful Destruction of (d) New Atlos, (d) Marcedonia, (d) Camberin, and (d) Xyllythrns. 5 (FIVE) COUNTS Unlawful Use of Levitation Device Class B on Level Five Planet Sploe in Violation of Charter M-24 of Shadow Proclamation.  
> Threat Priority Level: HIGH  
> Original Status: New Earth, ERCY 4346370  
> Current Status: Earth, ERCY2008_

\- only have the glass slip from numb fingers, crashing to the floor and shattering into a hundred pieces as the previous anxiety exploded in intensity. Wesley was small in stature but carried a violent arrogance that would have left Ianto shaking had he not already been so distraught at the unthinkable horrors the man had wrought. "You ... " Ianto could barely speak the words as shock stole his breath. "You destroyed four planets."

"Ianto?"

"Look, kid, I don't know what you're on about."

Lester and Wesley's voices both rang out in the kitchen but Ianto chose to ignore Lester as his question failed to dent Ianto's growing anger. "You ... obliterated entire species." It was unconscionable. The weight of all the lives lost both suffocated and enraged him, so many lives, and how many species were lost that failed to meet warrant scripts?

"You've got me confused-"

"Weslinoteth Lyone Braden Hartmew, Junior!" Ianto all but roared, noting with satisfaction that Wesley's face blanched entirely and blue spots rose to the surface as an odor most foul filled the room. Panic. A defense mechanism, perhaps, native to the Bandalans. He caught movement from the corner of his eye, but he pushed it aside as he stood tall, straightening as he squared his shoulders on Wesley, perfect parallel stance to the diminutive Bandalan who was frantically searching for an exit.

Wouldn't happen. Every fiber of his being felt attuned to Wesley's breath, the stench of his sweat and frantic syncopated beat of the Bandalan's heart. He wouldn't escape; there was no where he could run on Earth that Ianto couldn't find him. "You've sixty-four counts of acts in direct violation of Galactic Law, including five counts against the Shadow Proclamation." Ianto advanced as one of the Nertins slammed the door to the kitchen shut behind Wesley, preventing his escape. "You will not walk free on Earth while she is mine to protect."

Wesley crouched low and snarled, springing forward to rush Ianto - and Ianto was more than ready - but the Bandalan's momentum was suddenly halted as Mihouf tackled him to the ground. Dr. Ramamurthy engaged as well, shoving what appeared to Ianto to be a pressurized syringe against Wesley's neck, within seconds rendering him unconscious.  

Ianto watched it all, noting that the doctor seemed remarkably unruffled as he checked Wesley's pulse before slipping a plastic binding around his wrists. Dr. Ramamurthy looked up with a mixture of relief and revulsion. "Knew something was off about him. Couldn't deny him asylum without knowing for sure though."

But Ianto didn't move, couldn't really, frozen in place as his eyes drifted from Dr. Ramamurthy to Wesley, to the Nertin pair and back to Wesley again.  He wondered if he should find it alarming that he was taken at his word in regards to the violations of Galactic Law, it wasn't like the others could see into his head.  Hell, he didn't even know if it was actually truth, though he hadn't been incorrect yet.  The rage, very real and not wrong, still lingered despite it being wasted on the unconscious form; rage more at such inhumane destruction and loss of life than the actual criminal himself.

"Calm yourself, lad. We'll take care of him, now."

Lester partnered his words with a touch on Ianto's shoulder; when Lester had moved to stand in front of him he wasn't precisely sure and Ianto flinched in surprise. The jolt of awareness was all it took for Ianto to discover just how far removed from calm he was, tension twisting around every muscle, every joint, every nerve until all were coiled and bound, waiting for the depression of the hair-trigger. Even his wings waited poised and anxious, half-flared in warning and causing quite the spectacle from the looks on Celia and Mouhif's faces.

Ianto realized immediately how very not normal this was.

The anger vanished, leaving Ianto physically deflated and stumbling backwards until he collided with the sink. If there was any question remaining as to whether the wings were truly his or belonging to some parasitic creature, Ianto had his answer. Not debilitating, but painful enough to remind Ianto to avoid further such action in the future. He'd have to look at them later, make sure none of the feathers were permanently damaged. Even if they were, he wasn't exactly sure what he would do about it.

Fuck, would he molt?

And he thought early balding was something to fear.

"What will you do with him?" Ianto asked to get his mind off everything abnormal transpiring just now ... and in the past few weeks.

Had he really said he was protecting Earth? Then again, through Torchwood Ianto was, so there was truth in the statement. Perhaps he wasn't completely megalomaniacal.

"We have a few sections of land with facilities to house the criminal and the few who can't survive Earth's atmosphere." Lester smirked as Ianto blinked in surprise. There were no records of such facilities existing at all in Torchwood's records, and if they were large enough and housed aliens, Torchwood would know, wouldn't they? "He'll be given the chance to defend himself, we'll check what records we have, and if it's determined he's a threat to Earth, we'll ensure he doesn't set a free foot upon the soil."

To Ianto, that sounded a lot like Torchwood's duties. "But, Torchwood -"

"Your Torchwood is far different than the Torchwood of old." Lester sharply rebuked Ianto, crossing his arms while he watched Dr. Ramamurthy gather his few things (Ianto wasn't quite sure where that med kit had come from). "I also know the conditions of your holding cells and I have to say ours are more suited to long-term stay. They may be criminals, but on this planet, they're one of us. Naveen!"

Ianto frowned as Lester and Dr. Ramamurthy exchanged pointed looks; Ianto followed their eyes from the Netrins, to Wesley, and then to Ianto himself before the 'conversation' ended. The doctor nodded, then with Moutif's assistance carried Wesley out the door; Celia waved, albeit hesitantly, then exited as well, leaving Lester and Ianto alone in the kitchen.

"Naveen will make sure those three don't remember anything of this night," Lester said after the footsteps disappeared down the hall and he'd opened the closest windows to alleviate the stench of the Bandalan defense.  "I think it's best we keep this between the three of us."

"Wesley?" His frown morphed into a scowl, whether his displeasure stemmed from the whisky on the floor making his shoes sticky or the man who'd killed countless, Ianto wasn't sure. As much as he didn't want Wesley roaming free on Earth risking all if the Judoon showed to serve the warrants, he wanted due process, not injustice.

" _You_ , idiot child." A damp flannel struck Ianto in the face, surprising him but not so much that he didn't catch it before it could fall to the floor. Lester's boisterous laughter filled the room as he swept the broken glass into a pan; Ianto barely resisted the urge to throw it back at him, instead mopping up the spilt alcohol while mindful not to drag his wings on the floor. "You're one of us now, and that includes our protection. And I'd wager everything I own that there's a reason why we don't know much of anything about your kind."

Ianto didn't have an answer, but then, he didn't think Lester really expected a response.  Seemed he didn't know a lot of things lately, and the things he did know he didn't know _how_.  And he'd just cited an individual's violations of Galactic Law, condemning him though he really wasn't sure what he would have done had Mouhif and Dr. Ramamurthy not stepped in.  Fought Wesley?  With wings?  How awkward would that have been? 

And how ridiculous.  It most certainly would not have been graceful.  Owen would have mocked him.  Which reminded Ianto.  "We still have the Jack problem."   

"Well, we won't solve it tonight.  Think about it a while, maybe something will pop into that head of yours."  Lester gestured with the broom, using the handle to emphasize his point.  "You could just tell him, you know.  From what I hear, you were quite close.  Might be nice to have someone right now."

"Oh, so you're matchmaking now?"  Ianto grabbed the broom away from Lester, throwing the flannel in the sink before tucking the broom away in its closet, anything to keep from looking him in the eyes; Ianto feared the truth might just be a little too apparent.  It was so easy to pretend and ignore when no one knew to ask.  "We'll talk in the morning."

Lester was right; it'd be really nice to have someone right now.  Someone named Jack, as aplomb was failing miserably the more normal abnormal became.


	10. Chapter 10

"No. Absolutely not."

Ianto closed his eyes and took a deep breath as the argument spun out yet again between Dr. Ramamurthy and Lester, finally deciding that brewing yet another pot of coffee would provide a good distraction to remove himself from the disagreement. Maybe find a sleeping pill to slip into the pair's drinks while he was up; surely the coffee and Tang would cover any taste. They'd been arguing for countless hours, or at least it felt like it, sitting on the incredibly uncomfortable stool that was his only option in a kitchen full of high back chairs.

Yet more comforts gone with the damned wings. For all the stories of angels and fairies, Ianto wondered how any of them actually _functioned_ in normal, everyday life. Lester had dug up a Victorian threadbare chaise lounge (in the most awful shade of lavender) which Ianto used as an option to the wooden low-back chairs and stools, but he'd only strained the muscles in his shoulders reclining on the cursed furniture.

Dr. Ramamurthy had scolded him like an errant child for that, then again for not taking into account the increased demand on his chest and back muscles and promptly assigned modified exercises to strengthen and develop.

And then, with childlike curiosity, he'd asked Ianto if he'd tried to fly yet.

It wasn't that the question was outrageous or entirely out of line, but Ianto had been both embarrassed and furious, retreating to his room with a pair of mismatched weights. He'd have blamed the nerve of the doctor, only that would have been a lie and he knew it, knew it as well as he understood why he sat on his bed and miserably wept. Nothing was normal, no matter how he pretended it was or would be. He kept trying to adapt himself to the human world, but it was a world that didn't fit _him_.

Ianto's shame redoubled when he acknowledged to himself that he wished he was human. As a Windhover, it felt like both a dismissal of his entire race and a personal insult. There was an underlying thrum of pride that he didn't understand, a feeling of national unity, if one could call it that, but stronger, even if he couldn't explain it. Pretending to be human, _wishing_ that he no longer had the marks or the wings; the self-hatred disgusted him even if he had no idea what his 'self' was anymore. Everything he'd taken for granted, from nationality to his heritage, his entire history was just _gone_. Not his personal history, he remembered that well enough. But everything he'd self-identified as his - countrymen, cultural and political history, hell, the _Queen_ \- weren't technically _his_.

Though, he'd been raised believing he was Welsh. That had to count, if only by adopted proxy.

Looking back, Ianto knew he'd been right pathetic that afternoon. Even by that evening he had grown angry with himself for wallowing in pity for things he couldn't change.

He'd even tried swishing his wings just a couple times to see how it'd work, from the privacy of his own room where none could laugh.

'Ungainly' was the word best used to describe that attempt, for sake of his ego.

While the rest of the house slept (it varied day to day, depending on the guests), Ianto had been stretching his wings, moving them and trying to learn how to 'walk' even if he swore he'd never actually try to fly. Contingency plan, he preferred to call it, as he revelled in the powerful strokes he could feel across his pectorals, through his traps and down to the fine muscles along the arched lengths of the wings. He never left the ground though. The idea of actually _flying_ was too extreme and too far from normal to rationally accept, even as he tried to discover what it was to be one of the Windhovers.

He didn't get far; he didn't have much to go on.

And now Lester and Dr. Ramamurthy were arguing Round Thirty of the 'what do we do with Ianto/Jack/Torchwood debate.' Nearly six days had passed since the encounter with Wesley; Ianto's decision had been made just hours after Lester had retired for the evening. He would call Jack from a new mobile from a an off-site location, drop the phone, then leave with the transport vehicle (driving a car, yet another thing Ianto hadn't considered in the 'nigh-impossible' world of wings). A simple enough plan, and if executed far enough away from Cardiff he would be long gone before they traced the signal.

Dr. Ramamurthy had vehemently protested, and thus the continued debate until Ianto wished nothing more than to repeatedly strike his head against the hardwood kitchen table. It wasn't that he failed to understand the logic - the doctor had run from Torchwood for some time and knew the terrors they inspired. He feared both for his own safety as well as the thousands of others in Britain quietly living their life in peace. It was more that Ianto hated circular debates, repeated points, and unmade decisions.

Not to mention that once he'd decided to contact Jack - what he'd say Ianto hadn't the slightest - once he'd made that decision he'd given in to the need to hear Jack's voice. 

The subsequent delay left Ianto with a vacuum where want triumphed over necessity and made the nights all the more lonely.

Fuck, he missed Jack.

"You don't know him like I do. Ianto calls him up and no matter what he says, Jack will think he's acting under duress. He'll continue to search for him. No matter that they're shagging, Jack is fiercely loyal to that team of his. He won't stop, and Torchwood will find us."

For a moment, Ianto wondered how long Dr. Ramamurthy had been keeping tabs on Jack. And for the first time since he'd arrived, Ianto felt the calming sense of control slipping into place as the argument took tones with which he was familiar. "And you'd know him better than I?" Ianto noticed with some small satisfaction that both men flinched. The debate had gone on for so long while Ianto had remained quiet that the introduction of Ianto's voice sparked a derailment from the pattern.  "I trust Jack. If he knew about me or the underground you've got in Britain, he wouldn't cause any harm to anyone."

"He's Torchwood."

"He's Jack first, Captain Harkness, leader of Torchwood Three with no concern for Standard Operating Procedure so long as Earth is protected, second. Besides," Ianto added with a gesture from his empty coffee mug at Dr. Ramamurthy, "I'm Torchwood, too."

As the silence stretched, Ianto belatedly realized that the fact that he was Torchwood quite possibly had more to do with the argument then Jack. As for keeping him from communicating with Jack, Ianto asked the first question that came to mind. "So, am I prisoner here?"  
"Don't be daft, lad." Lester levelled his gaze on Dr. Ramamurthy, though Ianto knew the comment was directed at him. "Naveen just thinks it's wise to be paranoid of all things Torchwood, and on most occasions, he's correct."

"They killed Karl."

"Karl?" Ianto looked back and forth between Dr. Ramamurthy and Lester. "Who's Karl?"

"Karl Colbert." Ianto raised his brow at Lester's rather horrid French accent and hoped he'd never attempt it again. "I believe he said "Sploe" as well. He was Hoosknarian, bipedal race with dagger teeth and a dog nose? Unknowingly jacked a UNIT vehicle full of munitions, you lot caught up to him before UNIT and had that spat about who's authority the case fell under."

He couldn't have stopped the wince if he'd tried; in fact, Ianto was fairly certain even his feathers winced. Oh, did he remember that case. "We had every reason to believe he was stockpiling arms to use in an attack. His death was ... an unfortunate accident."

"You blew up his head!"

"We didn't know he had high ... blood pressure." Ianto knew it was a weak defense, but they'd honestly not known of the severe consequences of the mind probe. Jack had believed it necessary to extract the information when every word out of the Hoosknarian's mouth was a lie. Stealing UNIT weapons was a crime unto itself, but UNIT had wanted blood for their fallen men and Jack had done his best to take control of the situation. "He killed three UNIT soldiers when he fled with the vehicle. He wasn't an innocent and he most certainly was not following laws established by the Shadow Proclamation."

"He was just a kid," Dr. Ramamurthy furiously pointed at Ianto, "and not terribly bright. And you lot hooked him up to tech you didn't understand and are responsible for his death. Tell me why the hell we should trust you not to turn us all over for study and extermination."

Ianto felt his face blanch at the doctor's words; intentioned as they might be they still rang a far different chord in him. "We're Torchwood, not Daleks. And while we've occasionally screwed up, Jack does his best to do what's right at Torchwood Three. I stand by his decisions." Lester began to say something, but Ianto plowed on, refusing to be stopped. This was the only home he was currently welcome in and he wasn't about to be branded as one of the worst from London. "Torchwood One is another matter, but I will not speak ill of the dead. London was _destroyed_ , and Cardiff has reinvented itself under Jack's leadership."

He loomed over Dr. Ramamurthy, and finally Ianto understood what that meant. He stood in umbrage, wings spanning out to either side of him as he leaned his hands on the table. A bit dramatic, but then what was the point of wings if one couldn't loom? Jack would laugh, or he might even find it attractive, which made Ianto miss the man even more. _He_ wouldn't be calling out Ianto's duty to Britain. "And I'd be a hypocrite if I turned you all over, wouldn't I?"

"Ianto-"

He rolled his eyes and Ianto swore he caught the barest of smiles on Dr. Ramamurthy's face, whether in sympathy of Lester's fatherly tone or amusement at his belligerence Ianto wasn't sure. Refocusing his argument and stripping all of their control from it, Ianto made his point. "I refuse permission to stage my death; that's my life out there you want to kill and I can't do that to my team. And I'll think of something to say to Jack that  will convey that he is not to search for me any longer. But give me the chance to say goodbye."

 _Goodbye_.

At least he had the chance to say goodbye, he supposed. Torchwood rarely gave the opportunity. Ianto knew to waste it would be foolish; he just had to think of what to say and how to say it. Dr. Ramamurthy was correct insomuch that very little would convince Jack that Ianto wasn't lying and needed rescuing. He could tell Jack about the wings - Ianto was certain that Jack wouldn't mind that he was now 'different' - but the odds of that not fracturing what refuge and safety he had at Lester's was enough to convince him to at least delay that pursuit.

And maybe it wouldn't take much for Jack to forget him, or to move on.

Ianto didn't think he ever would forget.

Dr. Ramamurthy sighed and tilted his chair back on two legs. "I'm going to be out-voted, aren't I?"

"This isn't up for vote." With his mind made up (for the second time), Ianto was adamant. Besides, he couldn't continue worrying about the safety of all the displaced as well as Torchwood's. He had to quit avoiding the fact that his life was no longer normal and he had to deal with loose ends from his former life.

 _Goodbye_.

It did not mean, however, that it wouldn't hurt.

***

Ianto dreamed.

It was surreal, the awareness of dreaming, of controlling his path within his dream and yet he felt pulled by the dream itself in an absence of all control.

But he dreamed; aware within his dream of silken gray fog that he had rested his head to sleep or at least think about Jack.

Gray, sometimes blue flashing cerulean folds within the gray; wasn't gray so much as silvered air. Air? Wasn't air so much as gleaming life in undulating waves.

Or maybe he was the waves.

He dreamed, he was aware he dreamed. He dreamed and he wanted Jack within his dream.

Ianto smiled, or at least he thought he did as the steel fog crackled in jade fire. He felt connected to everything within the billowing gray, connected to all points within as if each quantum particle was affixed to him by a tiny string. As he moved, so did the strings; as he thought, so followed the strings.

Exquisite tempest, dark and powerful swirling black as he spun to embrace the dreamworld. Jack would appreciate the dream, would dance until the storm burst gold, raining drops of white light on Ianto's skin until it infused his very being.

Or perhaps that was simply Jack.

 _Jack_.

Linear thought on moebius tape, winding and twisting, but always the same path and destination no matter if he stood upside down or sideways along normal's face. Ianto searched, or maybe he was led, following his own direction through the sparking gray world until the haze cleared. Where it went he didn't know or care; it just dwindled to nothing like blowing steam from a cup of coffee.

 _Jack_.

Jack lay just how Ianto remembered him from long ago, stretched out in light and shadows the length of his bed, one arm curled over his head and the crisp white bedding gathered at his hip. Before, Ianto had guiltily watched only a moment before scaling up the ladder and fleeing to Lisa within the depths of Torchwood Three. This time within the comforts of his dream he stared, memorizing the plane of Jack's chest, curling down across taunt skin that rose and sank with each breath.

Beautiful.

Beautiful was how Ianto remembered, relaxed and not innocent but pure. A conundrum to be studied and poetically transcribed but never fully realized. Sharp angles and straight lines, gentle curves and tight bends, Jack was a disarray of order and structured chaos, at once living and existing beyond until the story of his body surpassed mankind but never quite touched the divine.

Captain Jack Harkness, just a man with humanity's faults and the immortality of the gods. Would he be worshiped a million years in the future? Ianto wondered as he silently crept forward. Would he be a nameless hero and salvation's grace? Or would he eventually collapse into the darkness kissing the tales of his past, becoming an unstoppable scourge feared by all?

Two shades of one spirit wearing the face of man. Temptations no different than any human but with the capacity for much worse.

Or better.

Within the dream neither mattered on the angled planes of shadow and light. Before Ianto lay just a man. Human with every breath huffing past soft lips, slow and measured in undisturbed sleep. Human in mind and human in heart.

Ianto wanted nothing more than to worship Jack as a mere human himself, not the being he'd become. He didn't know why it was important, or why he so desperately wished it. But Ianto wanted a dream of what once was, of the relationship they long ago shared, not the shredded fragments of history they now were, twisted up in wings and marks.

It was just a dream, a dream he controlled as much as it controlled him.

As Ianto watched, the marks slipped from his skin. They ran like oil glides over metal to reemerge in pattern on the walls, spinning in huge swaths of ebony coils and straight lines as the patterns repeated mark for mark, line for line, in abstract upon Jack's dimly lit walls.

It said something, even within dream, twisting serpentine black before his eyes. But even as Ianto traced a curl up the wall to the ceiling, he couldn't read it any better than had it been on his hand.

His hand, pale and unmarked as it swam in the wan light.

His body, so light and re-balanced in absence of wings.

So _human_.

Ianto moved, or maybe he didn't move but the room moved around him as he stood still, black lines upon the walls stretching and twisting, pulling and pushing with such force Ianto felt it echoed upon his skin until the whole world snapped in blazing cerulean-touched gray. He was pressed against Jack's bedside, bent low, his tongue just a fraction of a thought away from licking the spot on Jack's neck that drove the man to his knees.

He _licked_.

Licked and tongued a path from neck to ear as Ianto felt Jack come _alive_ beneath him with a murmured "Ianto" inscribing itself on the wall with the color of Jack's waking breath. His name pulsed with the rest of the black writing, throbbing until the walls themselves bowed with the beat half the tempo of his heart.

Fuck he wanted Jack.

 _Needed_.

Ianto nipped the lobe of Jack's ear, hearing the half-awake moans escalate to a growl that crashed against his skin with the power of waves against a rocky shore. Heady, spiraling, effusive. He floated on the sound, tumbled with it until Ianto realized it wasn't the sound but Jack toppling him onto the bed, a bed so much larger than Jack's narrow mattress that they rolled but never hit wall or edge.

Legs naked and tangled, straight lines and curves as Ianto viewed them splayed on the storm-purple bedding, living replicas of the lines that danced upon the walls of Ianto's bedroom.

Where had Torchwood Three gone?

It didn't matter; Jack didn't seem to notice as Ianto both felt the man's weight pressing down over every touchable inch of Ianto's body and watched from a bird's view. Jack's desperate kiss turned nigh frantic with the need to touch and devour as an endless litany of nonsense and promise poured from his lips and wrote themselves upon the walls.

 _Promise_. Ianto was aware he dreamed, he knew it as he watched himself fan long, pale fingers over the tanned skin of Jack's arse and felt their erections rub deliciously fierce and hot against the other. A dream where time was finite but unlimited and Ianto so ravenously needed that he saw it echoed in Jack as well while neither voiced a word and yet everything was said, everything Ianto could imagine possible and some things yet undefined.

A dream. "Love you," Ianto dared. Not dared, but rather confessed, abusing the privileged freedoms of sleep to test how Jack would react - no, _could_ react to taboo words staining red the innocent white.

"Fuck, Ianto." Jack shuddered as he bowed to crush Ianto's lips, stealing breath no longer there to give as he pressed down in time with Ianto's angled thrusts, bodies curved and blended until they became a ring, joined head and hip while Jack rose and fell on his cock. Ianto'd missed this, he _needed_ this. "Love you, too."

Ianto heard rather than saw the steel fog crackle and snap like flickers of flame dancing over wood as he surged up from his elbows, nearly overturning them but finding balance as the column wavered but stood tall and powerful. Chest plied to chest, Jack straddled his thighs. Shallow and rapid, Jack bounced on Ianto's cock, but no less wanton than the hitched sounds of punctuated words whose beat fell just slightly off rhythm.

 _Desperate_.

A test with an outcome of many, but resulting in the one reply Ianto wanted.

Just a dream, Ianto knew as he watched himself trace the curve of Jack's arse to finger the lube-slicked hole wrapped vise-like around his erection, the touch more a tickled echo on his cock as Jack moved. The kiss deteriorated into more clinging than practiced action; Ianto could taste Jack's building orgasm on his tongue if he weren't already aware of the faltering, frenzied pace. It wrenched his control as easily as it'd been a wisp of dust on the whorling wind, the salty zing of gusts off the Bay reminding him to hold tight to Jack for fear of toppling off the pier.

Jack's cock blazed like a brand between their bellies, a trapped friction superheated until Ianto feared they'd melt through the planks. As the grey fog settled in around them, Ianto felt hot strings of semen rain his skin. Jack's voice dwindled to vibrations rippling across the delicate skin of Ianto's mouth, captured and drowned with the surf of a stormy sea. Ianto quickly followed as the clouds darkened with broad slashes of black. His orgasm more growled than shouted against Jack's lips even as lightning flashed brilliant jade against the night sky.

The dream was ending. He felt it even as his body quaked while coming down from the heavens, weak half-thrusts still attempting to claim every last moment buried deep within Jack, who seemed to sense it as well. Languid kisses turned possessive as he pushed Ianto back into the pier.

Claiming, but claims held no stake in a dream as Ianto soon realized, pier disappearing within sheets of flowing steel tipped in blue.

***

Ianto woke with regret that the dream ever had to end and the distinct displeasure of feeling disgustingly sticky. Fuck, he hadn't done that since his teens. He touched a hand to his stomach, lip curling as he felt the drying semen turning tacky. It was still dark out, Lester and anyone else staying at the place would be sleeping yet, but Ianto's room was far enough away that a shower wouldn't wake the others. Or at least he hoped. With a mammoth yawn as he walked into the lavatory, he blindly fumbled for the light cord  and stepped in the shower, letting the water run over his head a moment before locating the flannel.

 _Jack_.

He'd phone him later that day when the lingering whispers of dream-Jack's voice no longer could be heard in Ianto's subconscious. He'd tell Jack ... something, something Jack would believe. He'd had enough of Torchwood, he wasn't going back, he hated them all for sectioning him, doctor's orders - no Torchwood.

Problem was, he didn't believe himself even when he thought that, much less how he would say it when he was actually speaking with the man.

Wasn't going to be easy. At all.

With a curse, Ianto turned his face into the spray and increased the water's heat to barely tolerable. He absently rubbed the bar of soap quickly over his body, ignoring the small fissures of pleasure still burning beneath the surface. Fuck, he even missed his specially blended natural soaps and his pinstriped pajama bottoms. Maybe he could have Lester stage a break-in. Or he could buy new, except he didn't have a bloody job or access to his accounts, which left him feeling even more lost and unsettled than he had when he was a youth working for cash day to day.

He could write books. There was surely a profit to be made on science fiction based on his experiences. Or maybe he could work for the facilities where they tended the criminal elements of alien life on Earth.

What he really needed to do was stop being alien. Imagine that, a Torchwood agent who was actually the very alien Torchwood hunted. Life's irony never failed to bring out the bitter in him.

Frustrated, Ianto quickly shampooed his hair, turning off the water with a bit more force than necessary. He grabbed the towel folded on the shelf, buffing his hair dry while tallying all the places he might be employable. 

Pretty limited to recluse within the city with a pernicious twin case of agoraphobia and anthropophobia or a marked freedom in the countryside. Alone, or maybe near Lester to allow for the occasional visitor.

Ianto scoffed at the idea of living in the city, an indelicate snort placing an exclamation point on the thought as he ran his hand over the mirror to clear the condensed steam.

 _Marked_.

He stared at the reflection, heart racing so fast he was sure he'd pass out before he could rationalize what he saw.

Or didn't see.

Holding up his hand directly in front of his eyes, Ianto searched the skin for any trace, any indication, any _hint_ of black.

None. Nothing. Perfectly pale, unmarked skin.

Twisting his head, he anxiously tried to catch a glimpse of his back, stepping a full circle before he realized with a cynical eye roll how inane he must appear and how relieved he was that no one caught him in the act. With his back to the mirror, he turned his head and saw ... nothing.

Nothing but skin covering bone and muscle. No wings, no feathers. Hell, he could see his _back_.

Light-headed, Ianto sat on the floor, the cold tile freezing his arse but he needed a moment to steady his breathing, to get a grip on himself. With his head pressed to his knees, Ianto looked at them, albeit blurred with the close distance, but there were no blurred lines, no black curves, circles or lines running over the skin there either.

He didn't know how, but fucking hell he didn't _care_.

***

Watching the expression on Lester's face as he walked into the kitchen was something Ianto would never forget.

He himself couldn't quit smiling. It was ridiculous, he had no bloody clue why, and that should scare the hell out of him as much as actually getting the wings, but he just couldn't make himself stop.

After seeing Ianto, Lester had immediately gotten on his mobile and rung Dr. Ramamurthy - even before making his morning glass of Tang and joining Ianto at the table.

Ianto, sitting in a regular chair instead of on his customary stool.

With a stupid grin on his face that matched the smiley-faced mug he'd hated so much before.

It was a while before Dr. Ramamurthy joined them; Ianto managed to finish two cups of coffee in the silence that stretched between him and Lester. Not altogether uncomfortable, but Ianto could tell he was nearly vibrating with the need to ask questions yet was holding his tongue for the moment. At least Ianto wouldn't have to explain his inability to answer any of those questions more than once.

Upon rushing into the kitchen - Lester had indicated a medical emergency - Dr. Ramamurthy promptly dropped his med kit. "Where the hell did they go?"

Ianto shrugged, eyeing the coffee pot to determine if another mug of coffee was necessary for the morning. "Don't really know. And certainly don't care." Third mug it was; Ianto stood from his chair, noting the absence of the weight on his back and realizing just how quickly he'd reverted to his former sense of balance.

That should probably concern him, too.

He'd forgone the shirt, knowing that Dr. Ramamurthy and Lester would wish to see his back and skin as proof of what they saw. And after days of walking around with no shirt at all, Ianto felt comfortable in his own skin. Well, comfortable so long as there were no wings on his back.

"You should care."

Lester sounded almost disappointed, though Ianto couldn't fathom why. Or he did, he just didn't care to broach that line of conscious thought. Instead, he poured another mug and sipped it while Dr. Ramamurthy continued his shocked, rambled monologue about the implications and theories in utter disconnect from Lester and Ianto. He might as well have been in a room all by himself, though that would have deprived Ianto from his slight amusement at watching the doctor giddy with a boyish glee.

"No, I really can't." Ianto leaned back against the counter, holding his mug in both hands after taking a generous sip. He hadn't lost a single feather when he'd backed into the cabinets after the incident with Wesley. In fact, there hardly seemed a barb out of place. It'd hurt when he'd bumped them, but apparently no damage. But he'd missed _leaning_ , for fuck's sake. "They're gone, and I look _normal_."

Dr. Ramamurthy interrupted before Lester could argue with him. For the interruption Ianto was thrilled, even if it was to poke at Ianto's skin and prod his shoulder blades. "What happened? How did they go away?"

He shrugged again, itching to escape the exceedingly curious hands of the doctor. It wasn't that Ianto minded the touching, although maybe he did. But it was more unnerving as the doctor's excitement bled through. "I was sleeping, woke up, showered, then noticed the marks and the wings were gone."

"Different approach.  What did you alter in your routine?"

Ianto flushed, though he was fairly certain Dr. Ramamurthy wasn't inquiring as to the state of his sheets upon waking. "Nothing different. Ablutions in the same order as every night before bed, laid down - wings and all - slept a couple hours, then woke up."

"And?" Lester's eyes never missed anything, Ianto remembered. Made him good at catching cheats. "What aren't you telling us?"

Flustered, Ianto looked at his feet, then took a sip of coffee before answering. "Dreamed. A very .. .vivid dream."

"A dream- ah ah." Dr. Ramamurthy turned away from his inspection of Ianto's back to wag a finger at him. "Spare us the sordid details. Can you feel the wings? Are they just invisible to our eyes, but still there?"

Concentrating, Ianto thought about what it had felt like when the wings were there. Before, even the slightest rustle of wind ruffled through the feathers, his nerves sparking like wildfire in awareness. But there was simply ... nothing. "No. At least not that I can tell. They're just gone."

"That's not possible. Matter just cannot vanish." Dr. Ramamurthy's voice shifted into his lecture mode; perfect for patients learning of new diseases, but matters of physics, biological constants, and anatomical theories were too much for Ianto to wrap his mind around at this time of morning.

Lester had a fond smile on his face as Dr. Ramamurthy began muttering to himself before he went to retrieve his kit. "What'd you dream about?"

"Jack." Simple answer, but it left him terribly embarrassed. Not embarrassed so much, sex was never an embarrassment, but Ianto preferred to keep such matters private.

"Ah." Lester gestured at Ianto with his glass, proving a pointed question in Tang. "And how did you appear?"

He was fairly certain Lester wasn't looking for a 'naked' answer, though it might have been amusing just to see what kind of reaction he'd get. "I appeared ... like this."

"Wait," Dr. Ramamurthy interrupted, a needle and vial in hand to withdraw blood. "You're telling me he dreams of shagging his partner as a human and _poof!_ he's human? That's not possible. Biology doesn't work like that, not without a glandular development to facilitate shape-shifting, and you didn't have one."

"But I had the wings and marks to begin the dream," Ianto added, not sure if that really mattered as it'd been a dream. It wasn't like he'd gone and had sex with Jack in various locations about Cardiff. The walls didn't move and they didn't say things like 'love you' or anything of the other various rambled promises and endearments.

Just a dream.

"What happened in the dream, to make them go away?"

Ianto had a hard time looking at Lester as he was supposed to answer the question, and he knew full-well why, even if he didn't want to admit it. He looked at the floor instead, ignoring the rubber tourniquet tied round his upper arm. "I just wanted to be normal. Human."

Lester didn't say anything for a long while, then sighed and patted Ianto's shoulder. "I'll leave you in Dr. Ramamurthy's capable hands. If there's an answer, he'll find it."

As he walked away without another word, Ianto felt the initial joy at the discovery dim, just a bit.

***

Ianto cursed as he nearly dropped the PDA for the fourth time that trip; the borrowed device was smaller than the one he was used to driving and tracking with.  He shouldn't probably be driving with it; if he was arrested while driving with the thing he wasn't sure that the "Torchwood" claim would work for him.  Especially since he lacked any personal information, much less a security badge. 

He held the PDA against the steering wheel, one eye on the road and one eye on the blinking marker. And occasionally, Ianto indulged himself and looked at his hand, waving his fingers to admire the mark-free skin. 

It'd taken Dr. Ramamurthy less than six hours to declare him completely human ("Impossible!") and Lester a full eight before he'd re-entered the kitchen and demanded Ianto attempt to think himself back ("Are you mad?  _Why_?"). 

Lester had emphatically stated that Ianto was going nowhere until he changed back.  Ianto tried arguing everything from alien STD to parasite to contagious hallucination while Lester fought back with every insult of cowardice and self-loathing in his arsenal - quite full, given the variety of notorious activities he'd been involved in over the years.

In the end, thirty-six hours later in the dead of night and alone in the courtyard, Ianto pictured the dreamworld he'd moved through to get to Jack and reluctantly meditated on 'wings.'

He'd nearly wept as he felt the shift; a soft brush of displaced air inspired him to open his eyes to the marked hand he held in front of his face. It wasn't that he'd honestly believed his 'alien' aspect was truly gone, but for just a moment, there was the sliver of hope that it was all a terrible mistake.

Lester had just nodded when he had seen Ianto, complete with wings and body art, as if his appearance just reaffirmed a belief he held. Then he told told Ianto to repeat it again. 

Taking a street corner sharper than he should have given his complete lack of ID, Ianto rechecked the blip on the PDA indicating that his target had yet to move.  Didn't mean much in the grand scheme, but it at least gave him a starting point. Timetables had altered drastically earlier that day when a UNIT team broke into Bree's flat, and the investigation escalated far beyond what Ianto would permit. This was obscene; he was just one person and Torchwood was wasting far too much time and dedicated resources instead of performing their real duties. 

Thankfully, Bree had been away from her flat when they'd broken in; somehow Lester had been alerted to that and four other 'places of suspicion' including a warehouse, the tiny shop where Ianto purchased his coffee beans, and the residences of two former Torchwood cases. Despite Dr. Ramamurthy's objections and Lester's hesitation as he insisted Ianto wasn't ready yet, he left Lester's in one of the spare vehicles retained on site for such purpose with a borrowed PDA and mobile. 

After he'd showered of course. Twice. And made lunch. And carefully labeled his research. Not that he was avoiding the inevitable, but he was. He shouldn't have been nervous, he shouldn't _be_ nervous, but it'd been nearly a month since he'd escaped from Providence and he felt more alien, literally and figuratively, than he had when he'd first joined the Cardiff branch of Torchwood. He felt it all the time now, a certain displacement of self and yet a distinct, albeit surreal, connection to everything. Ianto had made the mistake of attempting to describe the feeling to Lester, who had immediately declared a return to Torchwood off-limits.

Not that Ianto had listened, once Bree had been targeted. He realized he couldn't hide and toy around with his changes forever. 

The toying had been interesting. Once he'd gotten the hang of - well, he had no better way to describe it than the strings he'd dreamed about - sort of, tugging on those strings and visualizing either human or alien, he'd ceded to Lester and Dr. Ramamurthy's requests to view it themselves. More anxious than his Torchwood One interview, Ianto had struggled briefly before the two pairs of watching eyes. He never really morphed, they insisted; there had been no fluidity of transition from one appearance to the next, he'd simply gone from human to winged with just a flicker amidst a halo of white-laced electric sky-blue.  

There were other things as well. Subtle things that required conscious thought to observe as abnormal action or behavior for himself. Slightly faster reflexes than he remembered having (Lester thanked him for saving a shelf full of trinkets from crashing to the floor), his perception of things alien wasn't limited to just individuals but slowly tech names and uses began filtering in, confirming his suspicions that Lester's place wasn't just made with items found in the recent centuries. But like individuals, it wasn't consistent in quantity or quality. Sometimes just a year was associated, sometimes a race that created it. Mostly, the tech was weapons-related, a development inopportunely timed with venturing into Lester's munitions collection. 

The overwhelming quantity of information was too much for him to take in; Ianto woke up on the floor with no recollection of laying down and a concerned Lester standing over him. He mentally collected himself, getting his bearings before facing down the weapons room, this time prepared for the onslaught. And it worked, though he was distracted for some time at the vast array of weapons until he hit one Class F sonic blasting device (a "Banshee" in colloquial terms) from the 79th century and Ianto turned his focus on Lester, yelling at the man for the stupidity of possessing a weapon one couldn't even license, much less have on premises without being charged with a Level-A crime. 

Lester had just grinned, though why Ianto wasn't exactly sure. 

He'd lost his grin once Ianto had begun dismantling the weapon, tearing it down wire by wire, destroying the main processor and permanently disabling the power supply. No way was such a weapon, capable of horrendous destruction, going to even exist on Earth, much less upon British soil. He handed the shell of the weapon back to a speechless Lester with a promise as much as a warning: "Not even Torchwood should touch such a weapon."

Ianto smirked in memory of Lester's outrage as he waited impatiently for the light to turn green; there was no one on the streets this late at night to even merit the stop. With his recent luck, however, he knew better than to tempt fate. The SUV was nearby, and while Ianto knew he could have staged his return at the Information Centre or on the Plas near the invisible lift (not actually in the Hub as Jack should have changed the security codes per Torchwood Standard Operating Procedure), he had no idea how he would be received if they thought he had been stolen away by a nefarious alien and showed up on their doorstep. Ianto still didn't know how well his reemergence would be taken far away from the Hub, but at least he had the chance to escape before they threw him in a holding cell for a permanent stay,

At least he no longer had wings.  Or he did, rather, but had some semblance of control over their appearance.

He parked his car next to the SUV - quite close to the area where Ianto had first met Jack, actually - and listened, as his rigged PDA could only track the SUV's signal, not Jack himself. At least Ianto hoped it was Jack, but at this time of day generally it was Jack on a Weevil chase if he was out.

The sounds of a fight were easy to distinguish and Ianto ran in the general direction, slowing as he approached to maintain some element of surprise. He had no weapon, so he picked up a sturdy-looking branch, wondering again at the felicitousness of events. 

Fate had a funny way of amusing itself.

Grimacing at the unpleasant sound of something striking a hard object, Ianto advanced to see a crumpled figure near a tree (he would not consider what it was he heard cracking because that was far too unpleasant a thought for the time) and a Weevil threatened with drool dripping over its fangs.

Why did it always have to be Weevils?

Ianto noted that wasn't actually the species' name, though it was an alternate moniker for the species. 'Kophs' they were called, the entire race held at a medium level threat so Ianto felt little reserve as he struck the alien at the base of its neck with the branch, wincing as the impact vibrated up the wood and into his hands. 

Fucking _stung_.

He didn't have time to waste, however. While the Weevil was dazed he grabbed the discarded spray and hood dropped near the figure Ianto couldn't bear to look at; looked around was more what he was doing. A quick spray and the Weevil went down, luckily one of the few who were still affected by the spray, it would seem. While he was bagging the Koph, Ianto heard Jack gasp back to life, a sound he was far too familiar with but never got used to. What Jack went through - best not think about it, Ianto decided, tightening the cord around the Weevil's neck so it would remain pacified like a horse with blinders. 

"Ianto?"

The fact that Jack recognized him from behind, even in denims and a simple tee instead of his standard suit, shouldn't have surprised him as much as it did. Ianto finished knotting the cord as the crunch of footfalls in the leaves behind him indicated movement by Jack. He rose, dusting his knees of the leaves before he turned around.

Now that he was here, Ianto irrationally wanted to flee, run far from Jack and Torchwood, from the bastards who sectioned him and the team he called family. His mind whirled in a bit of a panic set at blazing speeds, he should have listened to Lester: this was too soon, he could have phoned Jack, asked for some more time and to halt the search, bought himself more time to figure out who he was and what he was. But he hadn't, rushing off at the first opportunity because he could pass for a human and he missed Jack, the team, and even Myfanwy without so much of a half-arsed plan to keep him from being deemed a security threat.

Which he wasn't, for the most part. If he helped a few aliens who weren't a threat by protecting them from Torchwood through his position, that wouldn't be that great a threat, would it? He hadn't promised Dr. Ramamurthy he actually would do that, though Ianto had promised to consider it. Jack might even listen if Ianto insisted the ones he could identify weren't a threat. Maybe. Those questions were all for another time, however.   

Ianto did acknowledge, however, that this was perhaps not the wisest thing he had ever done.

Holding up his hands so that Jack wouldn't shoot him before he could say anything, Ianto slowly turned on his heel, coming about to see the incredulous look-

> _Species Profile  
>  Species: BADWOLF  
> Origin: BADWOLF  
> Threat Priority Level: BADWOLF  
> \---***---  
> Individual Profile  
> Name: BADWOLF  
> Aliases: BADWOLF  
> Previous Violations: BADWOLF  
> Active Warrants: BADWOLF  
> Threat Priority Level: BADWOLF  
> Original Status: BADWOLF  
> Current Status: BADWOLF_

-on Jack's face, which he was fairly certain was probably mirrored on his own.

Badwolf?  What was Badwolf?

"Ianto?"

"Sorry, just ... remembering," Ianto lied, shaken far more by seeing Jack than he had prepared himself for, not to mention the profiles which were never wrong seeming completely ... hijacked ... when it came to Jack. He had no clue what it meant, but he'd deal with that later. He smiled with more than a little regret as he watched Jack's expression shift not to hostility, but wariness as the Captain's military-trained mind took over. Ianto had known it would come, but he still had no idea how to convince Jack that he was _Ianto_ and not controlled by an outside source. "You've blood..." 

As before, Jack stepped away from his touch and Ianto held up his hands in innocence as Jack drew his Webley. "You can see me?"

Ianto nodded with absolute certainty, gesturing with his head at the Weevil as well. "No more dead people, no more light. Just ... you."

Jack seemed as thrown as Ianto felt by the situation; Ianto really should have planned this better. He hadn't thought much beyond locating Jack and he lacked any evidence of any story he might tell, and even less of an explanation for what had gotten him sectioned in the first place. 

No explanation other than the truth, and Ianto was not ready to tell Jack that just yet, no matter how accepting of it Jack proclaimed himself to be. 

Fuck, usually he was more prepared than this.

"You disappeared." Jack's Webley shook and Ianto hoped it wouldn't accidentally go off; that was not the joyful reunion he had in mind. "We searched _everywhere_ for you, but you'd just disappeared."

"It's called escape, Jack." His tone probably wasn't conducive to encouraging Jack to believe him, but he couldn't stop the cynicism from creeping in.  In any event, it was at least helping prevent Ianto from saying that he knew just how much Jack searched.  The cynicism wouldn't be fair in that context; Jack and Torchwood searching was every reason why he was there.  "I reconnected with an old friend and spent the past month relaxing in the country." Not exactly a lie, though the time hadn't always been relaxing. 

"Why didn't you call me?" The gun snapped back into place, Jack's voice sharp with hurt feelings. But really, it was going to take more than a gun aimed at his head to strike fear in his heart.

"You locked me up!" Ianto stepped closer, ignoring the gun. He didn't believe Jack would shoot him anyway, unless he suddenly sprouted wings and looked like an alien, and wouldn't that be an adventure? "Forgive me if my trust in Torchwood was a little less than solid at the time." 

Jack's lips twisted themselves into a thin line, whether anger or self-recrimination Ianto wasn't sure, but the gun did lower, a small victory at the very least. "How? You were in no condition to run."

Ianto heard everything within Jack's words that he didn't say, the 'I watched yous' and the 'I saw yous' and the 'I came to you one night and held you while I wept.'  He may have seen it as a glorious ball of brilliant white-gold light, but he knew it had been Jack.  The 'why' portion of that question was still a mystery to Ianto; the best he could reason was that, as his mind and body changed, so did his ability to define what he was seeing.  Maybe.  Maybe he had gone just a bit mad for a while there. It'd certainly felt like it. "Please," Ianto scoffed at Jack's question with pure bravado that was every bit bluster as it sounded. "I've escaped from worse."

Daleks. Cybermen. His mother's madness and his childhood. Men with guns and cleavers. Owen-Weevil. Jack leaving him tied to the coffee machine, naked, mere minutes before the rest of the team was due to show for work.    
    
He just kept on escaping and it didn't make sense why.

"Yeah." Jack touched his ear, surprising Ianto as he hadn't figured anyone would be at the Hub. "Found the Weevil. Had a little help catching it." Ianto stood tall as Jack leveled his stare, unyielding but not unforgiving. "Claims he's Ianto."

Ianto winced, knowing he had no evidence to support his claims other than it was really him; he wasn't a Sleeper agent or an alien in disguise (well, not like that), or functioning under the control of someone else. He almost wished he would have gone with one of Dr. Ramamurthy's plans - fake kidnapping and ransom, bruise him up a bit with a concocted story of escape, drop him off at some remote village and fake amnesia for a while. But no, he'd insisted, and if he said it wasn't to return to Jack, he'd be lying.

"You'll see for yourself. Call Owen in. I want to start tests immediately." 

"Security Protocol Four," Ianto interrupted, holding out his hands. He knew the Torchwood handbook; hell, he preached it. 

Jack actually looked pained at the idea. "Ianto, I'm not going to-"

"Lock me up?" Ianto smiled sadly as he remembered the first awareness of confinement, though it had been far more trapping within his own mind than actual bars and keys. Something else to deal with later. He straightened his shoulders though and raised his chin, determinedly keeping his hands in front of him, wrist to wrist. "I can't prove to you I am who I say I am and you would be a shit leader of Torchwood if you took me at my word. So call Security Protocol Four, it's at least my choice this time."

For a moment, Ianto thought Jack was going to continue to argue, but then he reached into his pocket and removed the wrist restraints Ianto had yet to figure out how to break free from. Security Protocol Four it was, suspected agent contamination or tampering, often used at Torchwood One but never at Torchwood Three; Ianto wasn't sure if that was because London was more paranoid or Cardiff was more lax. "Tosh ... yeah. I know. Look up Security Protocol Four, we play by those rules." Jack looked directly at him while he spoke, snapping the restraints over Ianto's wrists. "It's temporary ... no, I don't want to either. No ... he says he isn't, but maybe a blindfold couldn't hurt?"

Jack asked and Ianto shook his head, vehemently against being blindfolded walking through the Hub, if only to prove there was no cause for them to send him back to Providence Park. There'd be a lot of tech there, but he could handle it.  At least he hoped.  "No, we won't use one, but good idea ... yeah, neither do I. Loading up, we'll be there in five."

Ianto waited patiently as Jack loaded up the Weevil, then casually checked out Ianto's car after punching in a series of numbers into his wrist strap. Checking for explosives, Ianto knew, and tracking devices. There wouldn't be any; no way would Lester attempt anything of the sort. Then it was into the backseat for Ianto, his restraints hooked through the locking device on the back of the passenger seat. Not exactly comfortable, but he wouldn't complain.

Ask him two months ago, and Ianto would have stared out the window and not said a word. Ask him a month past and Ianto would have laughed at the idea so ludicrous it bordered on the obscene. An alien, in Torchwood?

And now?  Fuck, he was actually headed back to Hub, back to his team and his job.

It wasn't perfect, in fact it was far from perfect - he was essentially under arrest until they deemed him no longer a security threat, something he'd initially hoped to avoid - but it was a start.

And there was Jack, checking the rear mirror so often Ianto wondered if he was watching the road at all. Maybe he was afraid Ianto would vanish again, or maybe he just expected an assassin's attempt to kill him before they made it to the Hub.

Or maybe he was happy to have Ianto back. 

Truth or not, Ianto indulged, wrapping the notion tight about him like plastic wrap and it kept him warm all the way to Torchwood Three.

 

***

  
Three days later, Ianto stood on the pier stretching its wooden finger into the bay. Typically, he didn't venture out, but there was something freeing about standing over the water, land visible out of the corner of one's eyes but ahead, nothing but water.

After months of rather isolated living, the press of _people_ was unnerving, winding its way inside like thousands of worms until he swore he could sense every single person living in Cardiff as easily as he breathed. And confinement within Torchwood had been even worse, though he smiled through it all seeing as how he had actually wanted to get out of the holding cell. Locked up, a captured prize through the looking (plexi)glass, Ianto developed a quick understanding of what could happen should he live as an alien among Torchwood.

Not an option.

The tests had all come back "human" with no signs of alien interference, much as Dr. Ramamurthy's tests had demonstrated. The psych questions all returned within the norms for someone who'd been through what he had in his life, though Owen was hardly the most qualified for quick determinations of mental health. He'd also been subjected to a lie detector test, a pitiful excuse of Maintok tech (cheap imitations of a similar device the Dabstoynes developed, sold for huge profits across the universe to unsuspecting fools).

Ianto had no problem lying when Jack asked him if he was an alien, though technically at that point in time he wasn't. Not exactly, at any rate. Enough doubt that Ianto could literally see how to work the test to maintain a green light.

He hadn't lied about anything else, however. Even if he hadn't told the complete truth. Stress was the reason for the visions, and Ianto certainly had been stressed. Owen didn't believe the stress argument, but the light remained green ("Stress? Bollocks to that." To which Ianto had quickly pointed and asked "Dead? Bullshit.").

The use of the mind probe was rejected immediately by Gwen who proceeded to berate everyone for considering using such a traumatic device on one who'd so recently been so severely traumatized. Perhaps a little over the top by way of delivery - Ianto didn't think he'd seen her so worked up since she refused to Retcon Rhys - but in the end, he didn't complain as the idea was dismissed.

Tosh ran her scanning device over his arm just to be on the safe side, no sense knowingly permitting a sleeper agent to continually broadcast from within the Hub. Not that he was, but he understood their fears and he couldn't exactly waylay them.

He'd been a bit concerned about the length of time he spent in the holding cells and his ability to control the alien side of him - there hadn't been much time to experiment if there was a fixed amount of time he could spend looking human as it hadn't gone well with the initial metamorphosis, but the anxiety was unnecessary. Ianto still did push-ups in the cell to work off some of that nervous energy, however, feeling like he truly belonged in a prison movie when he did so. Owen had mocked him, but Dr. Ramamurthy would have been pleased that Ianto had kept up the strengthening exercises.

Finally, after every test known to Torchwood had been run, Jack set him free and declared that he no longer posed a security threat. Ianto watched as Jack remained where he was, hands stuffed in his trouser pockets - Captain, not partner - as Tosh gave him a happy, tearful hug that Ianto had returned with equal joy.

For her ears only, he quietly thanked her for the wonderful coffee, all those many days.

Gwen had given him a hug as well, hesitant. But once Ianto thanked her for taking over for him while he'd been gone, she sagged in relief, laughing that she was never doing it again because she didn't actually enjoy working.

He did, but maybe he simply had a different perspective.

Owen had surprised them all, a hug so quick if Ianto blinked he would have missed it, then welcomed the tea-boy back to the Hub by demanding coffee cause Gwen's wasn't bad, but it wasn't _perfect_.

Ianto took that for the compliment it was, all the while watching Jack who never once moved. He didn't know what that meant, what Jack was saying, hell, if Jack was saying anything at all by it. He could have been carved in marble for all Ianto could tell. All of a sudden it felt too much, too real, too many secrets, too _normal_ when he knew how truly abnormal it was, then guilt for even thinking his race could be considered abnormal. The Windhovers weren't abnormal, the Earth simply wasn't built for them, not now, nor possibly ever.

But thinking that didn't stop the shame and Ianto excused himself with the need for fresh air, escaping to the pier.

Lester was disappointed that Ianto had been so quick to return, to run away from the truths secreted away in the eclectically decorated house in the country. But really, Torchwood was as much _Ianto_ as any Windhover heritage or purpose. And here, Ianto felt at home in ways he hadn't since he was five years old and his father would step through the front door at the end of his workday with a flower for his mother's hair.

Torchwood Three, the most dysfunctional collective of disparate characters that somehow worked itself into normal.

Normal was relative, Ianto supposed.

"I'm sorry." Jack's voice didn't startle him - even if he hadn't heard the foot treads, he felt the vibrations in the planks of the pier. But Ianto was a bit surprised Jack had joined him on the pier, standing so close behind him he could feel Jack's breath blow warm apologies into his ear. "I'm so sorry I couldn't ..."

Ianto leaned back into Jack as his voice tapered off into nothing but the swish of the waves lapping against the pier. Hands curled around his waist, seeking the warmth of his skin, the permission to touch granted by Ianto's simple action. Jack's chin followed, resting on Ianto's shoulder. Fuck, he couldn't remember the last time they'd _touched_ when it hadn't been connected to something tragic or extreme.

He couldn't imagine what it'd been like for Jack, although Ianto had some idea what lengths he'd go to when he'd started calling UNIT help for the search effort. Bit ridiculous, if one would ask Ianto, all that effort for just one person.

One not-quite-human person, and Ianto hated the idea of keeping more secrets from Jack. But now was not the time, nor was it his right to share, now when doing so could possibly spill the secrets of the hundreds living free in Cardiff.

Jack wouldn't care, Ianto knew he wouldn't. But Torchwood would know. And that was too much to debate at the moment.

"You have every reason to hate me, to hate all of Torchwood. We... _I_ failed ... you ended up at ... " Jack stopped himself, and Ianto didn't blame him - the rambled half-phrases seemed far too scattered for even Jack. But the silence didn't last with Jack picking up the thread from where he'd left off. "If you want to leave, I won't stop you or Retcon you. We owe you that much. Unless you want to Retcon the last few months, which I could arrange. Whatever you want."

Fuck, if only he could forget the last few months. "I'm not leaving, Jack. And I'm not chasing these memories with a bottle of whisky and a couple amnesia pills, though I may yet try the bottle of whisky idea."

"So, we're good?" Loaded question: Torchwood, Jack, their relationship, all the funny little details shredded by the last few months rolled into a tiny little query.

Sighing, Ianto closed his eyes and relaxed against Jack, wrapped in the great coat and protected from the wind whipping about the Bay. Good? Ianto didn't know that they'd ever return to good. Maybe they could, or maybe they were already. He supposed another argument was primed for the future, one where Ianto unleashed about Providence and Jack railed on Ianto for keeping secrets to which Ianto would retaliate with 'Badwolf?'. But hopefully, that would be a long time down the Torchwood road. Maybe it'd never happen. Ianto was skilled at maintaining secrets, though he really did wonder how long he could keep his heritage from Jack. He still wondered if he even needed to, or if the guilt would consume him for denying it.

Or maybe he'd wake up from a dream, in Jack's bed, with wings protruding from his back.

He'd been wrong about so many things, all of them had, from his vision of his mother until Jack freed him from the cell as he was deemed not a security threat that he didn't know what was actually _right_ anymore and anything was possible.

"Yup, we're good." He didn't lie, not really.

Jack huffed in amusement, cheeks rubbing as they stared out over the Bay. The hands wrapped about his sides turned decidedly naughty as they seduced more than warmed, and Ianto had to resist the urge to stomp on Jack's foot for doing any such thing in public.

"You know, I dreamt about having sex with you right here," Jack mused, his fingers teasing a pattern on Ianto's skin that was so distractingly familiar he almost missed what Jack had said. But his attention fully snapped on Jack's words, even if he didn't outwardly move. "Both of us naked, me riding you, and fuck, the things you were doing with your hands..."

 _Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the poem from which the title came. Trust me - read the poem outloud to really get the rhythm of the piece - it's just brilliant.
> 
> The Windhover - Hopkins
> 
> I caught this morning morning's minion, king-  
> dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding  
> Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding  
> High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing  
> In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,  
> As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding  
> Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding  
> Stirred for a bird,--the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!
> 
> Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here  
> Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion  
> Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!
> 
> No wonder of it: sheer plod makes plough down sillion  
> Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,  
> Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.


End file.
